3  57  B 


<J~v 


THE  LEAST  RESISTANCE 


KATE      L.     IKcLAURIN 


THE     LEAST 
RESISTANC  E 

By      KATE      L.       McLAURIN 


NEW  YORK:  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DOBAN  COMPANY 


To 
MY  MOTHER 


2136946 


THE  LEAST  RESISTANCE 


THE 
LEAST  RESISTANCE 


CHAPTER  ONE 

BOB  threw  down  the  Dramatic  'Mirror  which  had 
monopolised  his  attention  for  the  past  half  hour, 
looked  at  his  watch,  snatched  up  his  hat  and  started 
towards  the  door. 

"Come  on,"  he  said  peremptorily,  "we'll  be  late." 

"In  just  a  minute,  Bob,"  his  wife  answered.  She  put 
the  last  stitch  in  the  cap  she  had  been  making,  held  it 
up  and  looked  at  it  critically.  It  was  a  small  lace  affair 
put  together  with  as  few  stitches  as  possible — black 
velvet  strings  to  tie  under  the  chin  and  one  pink  rose 
perched  over  the  left  ear.  She  placed  it  on  her  head 
and  glanced  in  the  mirror  to  see  the  effect.  Satisfied 
herself  she  turned  to  Bob. 

"Think  it  will  do?"  she  asked. 

"Sure.  Come  on — what's  the  use  of  making  Sam  sore 
by  being  late,"  he  answered  without  looking  at  her. 

"Why,  there's  no  hurry — it's  fifteen  minutes  before 
rehearsal,  and  we  can  walk  it  easily  in  ten."  She  laid 
aside  the  cap,  shook  her  skirt  free  of  the  strings  and 
started  for  the  washstand. 

"Well,  if  you  aren't  coming,  I'm  going  on,"  he  said 
impatiently. 

She  understood  his  impatience  and  was  purposely  de- 
taining him,  hoping  thereby  to  cheat  him  of  his  visit 
to  Clancy's  on  the  way  to  the  theatre.  But  Bob  was 


The  Least  Resistance 

in  no  mood  to  be  detained,  and  knowing  that  his  stay 
in  the  saloon  would  be  shorter  if  she  were  waiting  on 
the  outside,  Evelyn  caught  up  her  hat,  followed  him  out 
of  the  door  and  down  the  narrow  stairway  to  the  street. 

Her  coming  increased  his  irritability.  He  felt  that 
he  was  being  spied  on,  restricted.  He  wanted  to  shake 
her  off,  to  hurt  her  in  some  way.  He  resented  the  fact 
that  she  had  been  waiting  for  him  the  night  before  when 
he  got  in  at  one  o'clock,  and  had  put  him  to  bed  with- 
out a  word  of  criticism — he  resented  further  that  she 
had  waked  him  at  seven  with  the  reminder  that  there 
was  a  great  deal  more  studying  to  be  done  on  his  part. 
He  couldn't  concentrate,  his  mind  refused  to  soak  up 
the  words  as  it  usually  did,  and  she  had  gone  over  and 
over  the  lines  with  him  until  they  seemed  fairly  rooted 
in  his  memory.  All  morning  he  had  been  at  it  and  now 
she  grudged  him  five  minutes  to  himself. 

"You've  been  so  busy  with  that  cap,  I  bet  you  haven't 
sewed  in  my  frills,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  can  do  that  when  we  get  home.  Won't  take  ten 
minutes." 

"Maybe  Sam  will  keep  us,  and  who's  got  the  brunt 
of  next  week's  show — you  or  me  ?" 

"You,  of  course,  but  what's  all  of  this  about?  You 
know  I  don't  neglect  your  clothes.  You  are  always  but- 
toned and  pressed  and  befrilled  when  necessary,  aren't" 
you  ?  Bob — speak  up,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  reluctantly. 

"Good  boy!"  She  pressed  his  arm  and  smiled  up  in 
his  face.  She  wanted  to  get  him  in  a  pleasant  humour 
before  they  reached  the  theatre — he  rehearsed  so  much 
better  when  he  was  cheerful.  "You  know,  Bob,"  she 
went  on,  "you  are  considered  one  of  the  best  dressed  men 
in  the  business." 

His  face  relaxed  a  little,  and  possibly  a  fleeting  pic- 
ture flashed  across  his  brain  of  the  designing,  and  sew- 


The  Least  Resistance 

ing,  and  pressing  that  consumed  most  of  Evelyn's  time, 
and  he  knew,  though  he  did  not  like  to  admit  it,  that 
his  reputation  was  largely  due  to  her  industry.  Though 
he  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  this  fact,  he  was  not 
without  generosity,  and  besides  they  were  nearing 
Clancy's  and  he  wanted  his  visit  there  to  be  accompanied 
with  as  little  friction  as  possible,  so  he  patted  her  hand 
and  said,  "You're  a  good  kid,  all  right." 

Evelyn  laughed,  and  began  to  talk  of  the  part  that  he 
was  to  play  next  week.  She  found  him  ready  to  join 
her,  for  it  had  been  a  long  time  since  such  a  part  had 
been  given  him.  The  role  of  Romeo  suited  him;  it  ap- 
pealed to  his  romantic  nature ;  gave  him  a  chance  to  feel 
large,  and  generous,  and  reckless,  and  to  make  love. 
The  costumes  were  becoming  to  him,  and  the  sword — he 
loved  the  sword !  Evelyn  agreed  with  him,  assured  him 
that  there  were  few  stock  actors  who  could  use  the  sword 
as  he  could,  and  that  his  fight  would  win  him  many  new 
admirers. 

"And  the  clothes  are  so  becoming  to  you,  Bob — •!  re- 
member the  first  time  I  saw  you  play — it  was  the  lover 
in  'Richelieu.' " 

"That  wasn't  much  of  a  part,  though  it  takes  dash  to 
play  it,  but  Romeo " 

They  were  nearing  Clancy's,  and  Evelyn  fervently 
hoped  that  Bob  was  so  engrossed  in  the  idea  of  the  hit 
he  was  to  make  that  he  would  pass  on  without  stop- 
ping. "I'm  going  to  put  deep  frills  in  your  sleeves  and 
open  the  blouse " 

But  pleased  as  he  was  with  her  appreciation  of  his 
merits  as  an  actor,  Bob  did  not  forget  Clancy's.  How- 
ever, he  wanted  to  be  as  agreeable  about  it  as  possible. 
"That'll  be  fine!"  he  said  with  a  show  of  enthusiasm. 
"You  walk  on ;  I'll  be  along  in  a  second." 

"Oh,  Bob,  don't  go  in!  You  know  you  want  to  have 
a  good  rehearsal." 

— ii — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"That's  just  it,  and  I  feel  as  flat  as  a  flounder.  I  need 
a  bracer — just  one,  that's  all."  He  smiled  at  her,  and 
disappeared  behind  the  swinging  doors. 

Evelyn  walked  on  slowly.  She  was  glad  that  she 
had  no  lines  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  for  she  was  so  tired 
that  she  could  scarcely  remember  the  "business"  that  had 
been  given  the  "court  ladies."  Bob's  costumes  sent  from 
Boston  were  so  poor  in  quality,  and  so  uncertain  in  fit, 
that  it  had  taken  all  of  her  ingenuity  to  make  them  wear- 
able. This,  with  the  work  that  the  small  flat  involved, 
and  the  nine  performances  a  week  at  the  theatre,  had 
about  used  up  her  strength. 

Bob  Waters  and  his  wife  were  members  of  the  Empire 
Stock  Company,  which  was  securely  established  in  the 
affections  of  a  small  New  England  manufacturing  town. 
They  played  every  night,  except  Sunday,  and  gave  three 
matinees  a  week.  The  other  days,  with  the  exception  of 
Thursday  afternoon  and  Sunday,  they  rehearsed  the  next 
week's  play.  Sunday  night  the  dress  rehearsal  was 
held.  They  played  to  packed  houses,  and  the  factory 
workers  fed  their  starved  imaginations  on  the  romance 
and  fun  furnished  by  the  Empire  Stock.  They  evidenced 
a  vast  amount  of  interest  in  the  players,  and  wrote  long, 
ardent  letters  to  express  their  approval  and  enthusiasm. 

It  was  March  now  and  the  company  had  been  playing 
since  October — long  enough  to  make  the  actors  and 
actresses  well  known  to  the  townspeople.  As  Evelyn 
walked  on  after  Bob's  disappearance  into  the  saloon,  sev- 
eral persons  spoke  to  her;  a  schoolgirl  bowed  in  a  shy, 
admiring  way.  She  wondered  why  they  felt  so  for  peo- 
ple of  the  stage.  They  wrote  her  that  it  must  be  won- 
derful to  live  her  life,  and  three- fourths  of  the  girls  in 
the  town  thought  her  the  luckiest  of  mortals — she  was 
the  wife  of  Robert  Waters ! 

She  had  not  walked  a  block  before  Bob  caught  up  with 

— 12 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

her.    The  strong  odour  of  his  favourite  Scotch  whiskey 
emanated  from  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  stick  to  beer  in  the  day 
time." 

"One  glass  would  do  me  a  lot  of  good,"  he  answered 
scornfully,  "and  I  didn't  want  to  keep  you  waiting  while 
I  had  two,"  he  said  playfully.  Then  taking  her  arm  he 
hurried  her  down  the  dark,  muddy  alley  that  led  to  the 
stage  entrance.  There  was  no  walk,  and  the  garbage 
cans  that  had  been  set  out  of  back  doors  made  it  ill- 
smelling.  The  door  was  hidden  under  a  ladder  that 
served  as  a  fire  escape  from  the  gallery.  In  the  shadow 
Evelyn  paused  for  her  husband  to  lead  the  way.  He 
put  his  arm  about  her,  drew  her  close  and  kissed  her. 

"Scotch  always  makes  you  affectionate,  Bob,"  she  said 
with  a  laugh. 

"You  laugh  at  a  man's  holiest  sentiments,"  he  answered, 
and  she  remembered  it  was  a  line  from  a  part  that  he 
played  not  long  ago. 

He  opened  the  door  and  followed  her  into  the  theatre. 
The  stage  was  dark  and  chilly.  The  company  sat  about 
on  chairs  and  boxes  waiting  for  the  appearance  of  Sam 
Foster,  the  director.  Some  one  called  out  a  greeting  to 
the  newcomers,  and  Evelyn  from  her  position  by  the 
mailbox  answered,  "Good-morning." 

Bob  collected  his  share  of  mail  and  strolled  over  to 
Harmon  Miller,  the  comedian  of  the  company,  a  power- 
fully-built fellow  with  a  well-shaped  head  and  broad, 
expressive  face.  He  spoke  in  a  slow,  soft  voice  and  was 
constantly  studying  comic  effects.  He  was  a  self- 
educated  man,  a  self-trained  actor.  The  members  of 
the  company  gave  him  credit  for  knowing  his  business, 
and  the  local  papers  predicted  great  success  for  him 
when  he  struck  Broadway. 

"And  how  is  the  world  with  you  this  morning,  little 
Eva?"  Hilda  St.  John  asked  as  she  came  up  by  Evelyn. 

—13— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"My  clothes  for  next  week  are  horrid,  and  I'm  too  tired 
to  fix  them,"  Evelyn  said  with  a  laugh.  "Otherwise  the 
world  is  fine !" 

"Optimist,"  the  other  said  as  she  tapped  Evelyn  affec- 
tionately on  the  cheek.  "Being  an  ingenue,  you  have  to 
be,  I  suppose!" 

Evelyn  chuckled — it  was  her  charm  for  Hilda  that  she 
always  appreciated  a  bit  of  wit. 

Hilda  St.  John,  the  leading  woman  of  the  Empire 
Stock,  was  in  the  early  thirties,  large,  well  built,  with  can- 
did blue  eyes,  and  straw-coloured  hair,  which  under  the 
judicious  use  of  peroxide  assumed  the  golden  tint  that 
ravished  her  audiences.  She  moved  slowly  and  with 
what  the  town  papers  called  the  "acme  of  grace."  Hilda 
was  in  reality  a  simple,  kindly  soul,  but  her  long  asso- 
ciation with  the  heroines  of  popular  plays  had  made  her 
artificial  in  speech  and  manner.  There  was  a  pathetic 
droop  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth  and  a  yearning  look 
in  her  eyes,  tricks  of  her  trade  that,  through  continued 
use,  had  become  a  part  of  her.  She  was  a  woman  of  lim- 
ited education,  no  reader — a  student  only  of  the  lines  of 
her  part  and  herself — long  practice  had  made  her  an 
expert  in  the  analysis  of  her  own  emotions.  However, 
this  self-absorption  and  artificiality  could  not  kill  the 
kindliness  of  her  nature,  and  the  hard  struggle  against 
heavy  odds  had  left  a  substratum  of  reliability  and  fine- 
ness under  the  crust  of  theatrical  effect. 

She  was  fond  of  Evelyn,  whose  slenderness  and  neu- 
tral quality  formed  a  good  foil  for  her  own  opulent 
beauty.  She  had  known  Bob  before  his  marriage,  and 
she  pitied  his  wife.  At  other  times  she  enjoyed  Evelyn 
as  a  comrade  who  had  no  stories  to  offset  her  own  artistic 
and  sentimental  conquests. 

Evelyn  had  one  accomplishment,  that  was  her  single 
advantage  over  Miss  St.  John.  She  was  an  expert  needle- 
woman and  was  able  to  dress  her  parts  with  the  least 
—14— 


The  Least  Resistance 

possible  expense  and  in  good  taste,  with  an  independence 
of  the  dressmakers  who  were  the  bugbear  of  Hilda's 
life.  The  conversation  between  the  two  women  usually 
turned  on  the  clothes  question  when  Hilda  was  not 
recounting  her  triumph  in  some  role  that  suited  her. 

Evelyn  never  gave  her  own  acting  any  thought  beyond 
the  conscientious  doing  of  the  day's  work,  and  the  hope 
that  she  and  Bob  would  eventually  fall  into  an  engage- 
ment that  would  not  be  so  wearing  on  mind  and  body. 

The  general  talk  was  stopped  by  the  arrival  of  the 
director.  A  few  lights  were  turned  on  and  the  rehearsal 
called.  Each  member  trotted  through  his  or  her  part 
with  as  much  speed  and  as  many  inaccuracies  as  the 
exacting  Mr.  Foster  would  permit. 

Bob  Waters,  braced  by  the  Scotch  whiskey,  swag- 
gered through  Romeo  with  fine  effect.  He  made  his 
entrances  boldly,  his  exits  effectively,  and  felt  for  his 
lines  so  skilfully  that  an  audience  would  have  been 
deceived  into  thinking  that  he  knew  the  part.  Not  so 
Sam  Foster ;  he  had  known  Bob  too  long. 

"Little  more  study,  Bob ;  this  part's  got  to  be  pat — no 
hesitating;  keep  that  fight  exit  lifted — that  scene  rests 
on  you." 

"I've  never  let  a  scene  down  yet,"  Bob  grumbled. 

"We  won't  argue  about  that;  just  keep  this  one  up, 
will  you?"  Sam  said  diplomatically. 

They  worked  through  the  morning,  were  dismissed 
for  lunch,  returned  at  one-thirty,  and  rehearsed  until 
four.  Evelyn  left  the  theatre  with  Bob  and  Harmon 
Miller,  the  comedian.  The  three  were  tired  and  nervous 
from  the  long  hours  in  the  damp,  chilly  theatre.  Bob's 
lunch-hour  drink  had  long  since  worn  out  and  he  was 
pale  and  irritable.  He  had  been  through  the  part  of 
Romeo  three  times  and,  in  spite  of  his  physique,  he  was 
not  strong;  at  least  his  constitution  was  breaking  under 
the  strain  he  put  upon  it. 

—15— 


The  Least  Resistance 

No  one  spoke  until  they  were  out  of  the  dark,  iH- 
smelling  alley. 

"The  days  are  getting  a  bit  longer,"  Harmon  said; 
"used  to  be  night  when  we  got  out." 

"Yes,"  Evelyn  answered,  "it's  spring — a  pretty  dreary- 
looking  spring,"  she  added  as  she  glanced  about. 

"March  is  a  bad  month,  but  it'll  soon  blow  away," 
Harmon  said  cheerfully. 

"Know  what  you  are  going  to  do  this  summer,  Har- 
mon?" Evelyn  asked. 

"Stock,  I  guess — they  want  me  in  Syracuse.  How 
about  you  two  ?" 

"New  York  and  job  hunting,  I  suppose — unless  some- 
thing unexpected  turns  up."  It  was  a  fear  that  haunted 
her,  a  workless  summer,  and  their  slender  bank  account. 

They  passed  Clancy's  saloon  and  Bob  stopped.  "See 
you  later,  Evelyn — coming  in,  Harmon  ?" 

"No,  I  cut  out  John  Barleycorn  five  years  ago,"  the 
comedian  said. 

"I  will,  too,  when  Sam  quits  working  me  to  death — 
this  leading  business  is  a  dog's  life."  Bob  turned  into 
the  saloon,  and  the  other  two  walked  on. 

For  a  while  neither  spoke ;  then  Miller  broke  the  awk- 
ward silence: 

"Can't  you  get  him  to  cut  that  out,  Evelyn?" 

Evelyn  started — she  was  not  brooding  over  Bob's  dis- 
sipation as  Harmon  imagined.  She  was  physically  tired, 
and  her  mind  was  vacant.  "Drinking,  you  mean  ?" 

"Yep ;  it's  done  up  better  men  than  Bob." 

"I  know  it  has,"  she  answered. 

"He  is  going  it  pretty  strong." 

"He  is  tired  and  depressed,"  she  said  loyally ;  "he  has 
been  working  pretty  hard  and  it  is  getting  on  his 
nerves." 

"Well,  Clancy  is  about  the  worst  nerve  doctor  I  know," 
Harmon  said  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
— 1 6 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Oh,  I  know  that!  I  don't  mean  that  I  approve  of 
Bob's  going  in  there  so  much,  but" — she  turned  to  him 
with  a  quaint  little  smile  in  which  there  lurked  a  shadow 
of  sadness — "I  make  the  best  of  it ;  this  business  teaches 
us  to  do  that,  I  think." 

"It  is  apt  to  make  us  happy-go-lucky — and  that  ends 
us.  You  know,  young  Evelyn,"  he  went  on  more  seri- 
ously, "it  is  a  hard  game,  and  you  need  all  of  your  in- 
telligence and  nerve  to  play  it.  I've  worked  up  from 
the  very  bottom  and  some  day  I  expect  to  land  big,  but  I 
won't  get  there  over  the  John  Barleycorn  route  and  I 
don't  believe  anybody  else  can  do  it." 

"You  mean  that  Bob " 

"I  don't  mean  anything,  but  I  like  you  both — I  like 
your  pluck  a  whole  lot,  and  I'd  like  to  see  you  get  on — 
that's  all." 

"We  haven't  much  chance  to  get  on,"  she  said  simply, 
"we  are  always  too  poor  to  hold  out  for  a  good  engage- 
ment, we  have  to  take  just  what  comes  along.  I  guess 
we  will  be  doing  stock  until  the  end  of  time."  Her  eyes 
were  smiling  but  the  voice  was  weary  and  hopeless. 

They  were  at  her  door  and  she  waited  for  him  to  speak 
before  she  ascended  the  stairs. 

"You  can  get  on,"  he  assured  her.  "Bob  is  a  good 
looking  fellow,  and  he's  got  some  personality — he  ought 
to  do  well,  but  you've  got  to  go  after  him — you  can't 
give  him  absent  treatment.  Lots  of  wives  have  to  bring 
up  their  husbands  the  way  they  should  go — especially 
if  the  husband  is  an  actor.  And  you  ought  to  get  on 
yourself — you  are  young  and  pretty,  if  you  could  just 
cut  out  this  hard  work  a  while,  and  take  care  of  your- 
self." 

She  stood  looking  up  at  him  with  eyes  that  questioned 
and  appealed.  He  found  himself  wanting  to  answer  the 
question  and  the  appeal  but  he  had  no  skill  with  women, 
so  he  contented  himself  with  a  friendly  pat  on  the 

—17— 


The  Least  Resistance 

shoulder  and  a  cheerful,  "So  long,  see  you  at  the  show 
shop  some  hours  hence." 

She  watched  him  as  he  walked  away — something  in 
her  throat  had  choked  down  an  answer  to  his  farewell. 

The  early  spring  day  was  drawing  to  a  close  and  the 
air  was  chill  and  sharp.  It  had  rained  during  the  after- 
noon and  the  streets  were  muddy,  the  sidewalks  dirty, 
and  the  whole  scene  before  her  sordid  and  cheerless. 
It  was  a  poor  neighbourhood  and  the  people  hurrying 
home  through  the  twilight  were  ill  clad  and  hopeless 
looking.  Evelyn's  courage  ebbed  and  her  fatigue  grew 
more  acute  as  she  watched  them.  She  wished  that  she 
had  asked  Harmon  in  to  wait  for  Bob's  return — they 
might  have  had  supper  together  and  that  surely  would 
have  been  more  cheerful.  So  the  others  were  beginning 
to  notice,  and  to  talk  about  Bob — she  had  used  all  of 
her  ingenuity  to  keep  from  them  that  the  habit  was  grow- 
ing on  him.  And  there  were  other  things,  a  growing 
disregard  of  money — no  thought  of  the  future,  not  even 
of  the  summer  that  would  soon  be  upon  them,  a  summer 
that  might  be  without  work ;  and  there  was  his  increasing 
indifference  to  her — she  counted  very  little  with  him,  only 
habit  and  her  usefulness  made  him  tolerate  her.  Possibly 
Harmon  guessed  that.  She  had  an  impulse  to  run  after 
him,  and  ask  him — she  could  see  his  broad  back  far  down 
the  street — then  she  laughed  a  short,  mirthless  laugh  at 
her  own  folly,  turned  and  ran  up  the  steps. 

There  was  the  lace  cap  laying  on  the  table.  Uncon- 
sciously she  tried  it  on  and  glanced  in  the  mirror.  The 
eyes  that  looked  back  at  her  were  large  and  brown  and 
in  the  pale  face  their  size  and  colour  were  accentuated. 
In  these  eyes  there  was  anxiety  but  no  eagerness;  they 
were  steady  and  honest,  but  not  keen;  they  did  not  in- 
dicate an  excitable  nature  nor  a  rapidly  working  intelli- 
gence. The  whole  face  expressed  patience,  capability, 
— 18— 


The  Least  Resistance 

adaptability — the  droop  of  the  mouth  added  a  note  of 
pathos. 

Evelyn  laid  aside  the  cap,  and  opened  the  box  that  held 
Bob's  costume.  She  measured  off  the  frilling  and  stitched 
it  in  the  sleeves.  She  sewed  on  rapidly,  silently  through 
the  fast  failing  light,  her  thoughts  flowing  so  swiftly  in 
their  deep,  secret  channel  that  she  did  not  hear  Bob's 
step  on  the  stair.  The  next  moment  he  had  opened  the 
door,  and  stood  looking  at  her  approvingly. 

"Good  girl,"  he  said,  "nice  little  wife  to  fix  my  coat !" 
He  was  in  a  merry  mood,  and  that  meant  more  than  "just 
one  drink." 

"You  are  a  nice  little  wife !"  he  reiterated  as  he  came 
over  to  her,  drew  her  head  back  and  kissed  her. 

She  struggled  free,  choking  from  the  strong  fumes  of 
cheap  whiskey. 

"Don't,  Bob — don't!"  she  cried  vehemently. 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you?"  he  demanded. 

"Let  me  alone,  please."  She  held  the  coat  to  her  face 
to  stifle  the  sobs,  but  it  was  useless — they  rose  in  the 
throat,  and  forced  their  way  out.  Her  body  shook.  The 
coat  dropped  to  the  floor.  She  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  cried  heartbrokenly,  while  Bob  filled  the 
darkening  room  with  inarticulate  oaths. 


-19— 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE  season  of  the  Empire  Stock  came  to  an  end  the 
first  week  of  May.  By  that  time  the  summer  parks 
were  open,  and  the  friendly  souls  who  had  made  up  the 
winter  audiences  went  seeking  new  and  more  personal 
amusement.  No  matter  how  great  the  romance  and  ex- 
citement furnished  by  the  actors  it  was  not  so  potent 
as  the  romance  and  excitement  that  could  be  wrung  from 
life  in  the  dancing  pavilion,  and  other  forms  of  pleasure 
that  the  astute  manager  of  Crystal  Park  had  devised. 

Business  fell  away  at  the  theatre,  and  the  notice  of 
closing  went  up  a  week  earlier  than  the  jaded  company 
expected.  Some  of  the  more  fortunate  members  were 
engaged  for  the  summer,  and  regarded  gratefully  the 
additional  week  of  rest  before  taking  up  new  work. 

Hilda  St.  John,  whose  stunning  figure  and  extensive 
wardrobe  always  insured  her  a  good  stock  engagement, 
was  to  leave  immediately  after  the  closing  for  Louisville, 
where  she  was  to  play  ten  weeks  at  a  summer  park.  She 
had  been  there  the  summer  before,  and  the  manager  was 
anxious  to  have  her  return. 

"I  was  a  great  favourite  there,  my  dear,"  she  told 
Evelyn,  who  had  come  in  to  hook  her  up  for  the  last  act ; 
"I  mean  a  social  favourite  and  that  helps  you  a  lot  in 
stock." 

"Yes,  I  know,  people  like  you,  Hilda,"  Evelyn  said. 

"You  bet  they  do — I  make  them — it's  just  a  trick. 
I  make  those  society  people  understand  right  from  the 
beginning  that  they  can't  patronise  me.  I  don't  want  to 
say  anything  against  the  Southern  people — I'm  from 
Georgia,  and  a  loyal  daughter,  and  all  that,  but  they  have 
— 20 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

a  deep  still  hunch  that  they  are  the  best  people  on  earth 
and  they  let  you  know  it,  if  you  stand  for  it."  Without 
waiting  for  an  answer  Hilda  rambled  on:  "You  ought 
to  begin  to  perk  up,  and  make  people  like  you.  This 
thing  of  sitting  down  and  being  just  a  wife  is  all  right 
in  a  story  book,  but  it  doesn't  get  you  anything  on  the 
stage." 

"Possibly  not,"  Evelyn  agreed,  as  she  struggled  with  a 
mashed  hook. 

"Of  course  it  doesn't — as  long  as  I  was  Billy  Hart- 
man's  wife,  I  pressed  his  clothes  and  put  him  to  bed 
when  he  was  drunk  and  played  silly  soubrettes — I  was  a 
good  deal  thinner  than  I  am  now.  I  stood  all  that  just 

so  long,  then  he  went  away  and "    She  finished  her 

sentence  with  a  gesture  more  eloquent  than  words  for  it 
invited  Evelyn  to  look  at  her  splendid  image  reflected 
in  the  long  mirror. 

"But  I  could  never  be  like  you "    Evelyn  answered 

as  she  picked  up  a  powder  puff  and  gave  a  pat  to  her 
nose.  She  was  dressed  in  a  pink  muslin  which  her 
nimble  fingers  had  made,  and  a  poke  bonnet — a  wreath 
of  pink  roses  under  the  brim  framed  her  face.  With 
the  make-up  and  the  costume  she  looked  barely  eighteen, 
fragile  and  appealing;  certainly  with  no  prospect  of  ever 
rivalling  the  dazzling  blonde  beauty  of  Miss  St.  John. 

"Yes,  you  could,"  the  latter  was  saying,  "if  you  weren't 
shy." 

"Shy?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Yes,  it  won't  do  in  this  business.  I  was  shy  and 
sweet  myself,  but  fifteen  years  of  trouping  have  made 
me  as  brassy  as  a  tack — and  as  sharp.  Nobody  puts 
anything  over  on  me.  How  long  have  you  been  in  this 
business,  Evelyn?"  she  asked  with  one  of  her  sudden 
bursts  of  interest  in  her  companion. 

"I've  been  acting  three  years — Bob  and  I  were  married 
two  years  before  I  began." 

— 21 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"Not  much — it  might  be  very  nice  if — but  I  would 
like  a  home  where  everything  was  pretty.  Wouldn't  it  be 
nice  to  have  a  garden,  Hilda  ?"  she  asked  with  a  sudden 
breathless  earnestness. 

"You  should  have  married  that  young  bank  clerk,  my 
dear,"  Hilda  said  with  a  smile.  "Lord  knows  why  you 
didn't — not  that  Bob  isn't  a  good  chap,"  she  put  in 
hastily,  "but  you  are  too  sweet  for  this  rough  game." 
She  threw  her  arms  about  the  slender  girl  at  her  side 
and  gave  her  a  squeeze — her  rouged  lips  denied  her  the 
pleasure  of  a  kiss. 

As  they  left  the  theatre  that  night  Bob  spoke  irritably 
of  the  early  closing.  "They  practically  guaranteed  us 
until  the  first  of  June.  If  I  had  known  that  they  would 
close  up  like  this  they  could  have  whistled  for  me." 

Evelyn  knew  what  their  circumstances  had  been  when 
this  engagement  was  offered  them  and  how  delighted 
they  were  to  get  the  work,  for  Bob  had  borrowed  from 
every  available  source  and  their  situation  was  indeed 
desperate,  but  she  refrained  from  reminding  him  of  these 
things. 

"Do  you  think  we  can  get  a  summer  engagement  so 
late  as  this,  Bob  ?"  she  asked  after  a  long  pause. 

"How  can  I  tell — I'm  no  agent.  That's  the  way  of 
this  rotten  game — you  work  and  work  like  a  dog,  and  at 
the  last  minute  they  kick  you  out  for  a  thirty-dollar-a- 
week  actor." 

"I  wish  we  had  saved  more  money." 

"There  you  go,  blaming  me " 

"Oh,  no,  Bob,  I  am  not — that  is,  I  wish  sometimes  you 
would  profit  by  past  experience " 

"Sure,  I  am  always  to  blame — I  spend  all  the  money — 
I  do  everything  that's  wrong!"  It  was  not  always  that 
Bob  was  so  violent,  but  the  fear  that  haunted  her  troubled 
him — the  prospect  of  a  long,  workless  summer,  and  the 

— 22 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

uncertainty  of  signing  up  for  the  fall.  He  felt  that  in 
some  way  Evelyn  was  to  blame,  or  at  least  he  would  not 
be  in  such  a  condition  had  he  not  a  wife  to  worry  about. 
He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  blaming  her  for  everything 
that  went  wrong,  and  her  attitude  encouraged  him  in  this 
practice.  She  either  laughed  at  him  or  tried  to  explain 
if  the  accusation  was  too  unjust  for  laughter — she  had 
neither  the  firm  hand  nor  sharp  tongue  which  was  needed 
to  hold  Bob  in  line. 

That  Evelyn  was  the  soul  of  thrift  and  wifely  efficiency 
was  lost  on  Bob ;  that  she  sewed,  cooked,  rehearsed,  acted, 
and  performed  the  duties  of  wife  and  valet  to  him  seemed 
nothing  unusual  or  especially  praiseworthy.  And  Evelyn 
had  long  since  ceased  to  expect  anything  from  her  weak 
willed,  irascible,  dissipated  husband.  Almost  from  the 
beginning  of  her  married  life  she  found  that  this  new 
relation  involved  strange  and  undreamed  of  duties,  and 
she  had  automatically  responded  to  these  demands  until 
it  had  come  that  she  had  practically  lost  her  own  identity, 
so  engrossing  was  the  role  of  being  Bob's  wife.  She  had 
not  been  prepared  for  this  since  her  girlhood  had  been 
passed  in  a  normal  home  where  her  gentle  mother  re- 
lied absolutely  on  the  word  and  judgment  of  a  kind, 
tender  husband.  It  was  always,  "Ask  your  father,  dear," 
and  "Father  knows  best,  Evelyn."  And  on  these  pre- 
cepts and  ideals  was  Evelyn  nurtured  so  that  she  grew 
up  with  an  enormous  respect  for  the  man  of  the  family. 

After  her  mother's  death  she  was  the  housekeeper  and 
companion  of  her  father,  and  she  loved  and  served  him 
with  a  tenderness  and  wisdom  unusual  in  a  girl  of  her 
age.  Life  ran  along  smoothly  in  the  little  Kentucky 
town  and  Evelyn,  in  view  of  the  devoted  attentions  of 
Porter  Howe,  was  heading  straight  into  a  marriage  that 
would  have  reproduced  exactly  the  calm,  happy  life  of 
her  father  and  mother,  when  Bob  Waters  arrived  on  the 
scene. 

—23— 


The  Least  Resistance 

He  came  down  to  visit  some  distant  cousins  of  his 
who  had  seen  him  in  Louisville  in  a  picturesque  melo- 
drama, and  on  the  strength  of  a  similarity  of  name  had 
looked  him  up.  After  much  talk  some  kinship  was  estab- 
lished, and  Bob  was  invited  to  visit  them  after  his  sea- 
son closed. 

Bob  Waters  was  a  new  experience  for  Claysville.  His 
profession  made  him  at  once  the  object  of  interest  and 
curiosity.  In  some  his  appearance  aroused  admiration, 
in  others  amusement,  for  his  clothes  were  of  a  cut  not 
known  in  Claysville,  where  the  blue-blooded  youths  were 
content  with  the  natural  breadth  of  their  shoulders  and 
never  sought  to  add  an  inch  to  their  stature  by  high 
heels  and  lifts  in  their  shoes.  But  Bob,  with  his  well- 
padded  shoulders,  his  vivid  ties,  the  liberal  use  of  braid 
on  his  coat,  the  large  amethyst  ring  on  his  little  finger, 
and  the  lilac  fragrance  that  emanated  from  his  carefully 
brushed  hair  was  an  object  too  dazzling  for  the  well- 
being  of  the  pretty  Kentucky  girls.  And  then  his  walk 
— the  one  step  back  before  stepping  forward ;  the  shrug 
of  the  shoulder,  the  haughty  angle  of  the  head,  and  the 
deprecatory  lift  of  the  eyebrows  when  asked  if  Henry 
Miller  was  not  a  great  actor — all  the  tricks  of  a  stock 
actor  of  poor  calibre  and  bad  training  who  supplies  in 
pose  what  he  lacks  in  mentality  were  in  full  flower  in 
this  newcomer  to  Claysville. 

The  young  men  of  the  town  viewed  him  with  open 
disfavour.  "The  fellow  is  a  damned  poseur,"  Clayton 
Smith  said ;  "I'll  bet  my  horse  he  wouldn't  fight." 

"Might  break  his  manicured  nails,"  Burke  Holt  said 
with  a  sneer. 

To  the  girls  of  the  town  this  spelt  jealousy  of  the 
matinee  idol,  and  they  redoubled  their  attentions.  To 
Bob  it  was  an  experience  new  and  fascinating. 

Born  in  a  shanty  on  the  Iowa  bank  of  the  Mississippi 
River,  he  passed  his  childhood  in  attempts  to  evade  the 
—24— 


The  Least  Resistance 

cruel  fists  of  a  drunken  father  and  the  exactions  of  an 
overworked  mother.  At  ten  he  ran  away  from  home  and 
as  there  were  seven  children  to  engross  the  attention  of 
his  parents  they  made  no  effort  to  trace  the  boy. 

From  this  time  on  his  life  was  a  series  of  shady  ad- 
ventures, and  precarious  meals.  He  lived  sometimes  by 
work,  sometimes  by  cunning  and  then  again  by  theft. 
At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  became  a  professional  "super" 
in  the  Chicago  theatres.  He  was  listed  with  all  of  the 
stage  door  men  and  "super-captains"  in  the  city,  and 
worked  regularly  during  the  theatrical  season.  He  earned 
five  dollars  a  week  and  often  added  to  this  sum  by  acting 
as  dresser  to  some  important  member  of  the  company. 

At  eighteen  Bob  was  a  good-looking,  supple-bodied, 
active-minded  youth.  The  bad  habits  acquired  during  his 
precarious  life  clung,  but  had  not  laid  deep  hold  on  him, 
so  that  when  the  occasion  arose  he  could  cast  them 
off,  and  assume  an  air  of  earnestness  and  virtue.  It 
was  such  an  assumption  at  the  right  moment  that  secured 
his  first  engagement. 

During  a  performance  of  Hamlet  a  great  Shakespearian 
star  had  in  the  last  act  caught  the  eye  of  the  young  super 
and,  charmed  with  the  effect  that  his  acting  was  having 
at  close  range,  determined  to  reward  the  taste  of  the 
young  man.  The  terror  and  beauty  of  the  scene,  the 
solemn  surge  of  the  orchestra,  the  trailing  music  of  Ham- 
let's farewell  speech,  had  aroused  Bob's  emotional  nature 
to  the  pitch  where  it  might  be  truly  said  that  his  soul  was 
at  its  window. 

After  the  curtain  was  down  the  star  sent  for  him. 
Bob,  fearful  of  some  infraction  of  rule  and  expecting 
nothing  less  than  a  sound  abusing,  went  with  reluctance 
and  timidity  into  the  dressing  room.  This  added  to  the 
favourable  impression  that  he  had  made.  He  answered 
the  questions  with  the  proper  earnestness  and  fervour, 
with  the  result  that  when  the  company  departed  Bob  was 

—25— 


The  Least  Resistance 

a  member  of  it,  drawing  the  munificent  salary  of  twenty 
dollars  a  week. 

Fortunately  the  star  had  neither  time  nor  inclination 
to  investigate  his  "find,"  and  Bob  remained  two  seasons 
with  the  organisation.  He  learned  a  great  deal  of  the 
Shakespearian  text  without  once  dipping  below  the  magic 
surface.  He  learned  to  wear  a  sword,  dance  the  minuet 
and  to  talk  in  his  throat.  He  led  the  life  of  the  average 
actor  whose  interests  are  almost  entirely  removed  from 
the  theatre  once  they  have  exhausted  the  scandal  of  the 
profession  and  aired  their  grievances  against  the  man  on 
top.  He  spent  as  much  money  as  he  earned — most  of  it 
going  across  the  bar;  his  other  pleasures  he  procured 
without  the  outlay  of  money — the  glamour  of  the  stage 
and  his  gift  for  love-making  rendering  this  none  too 
difficult.  For  the  rest  he  slept  a  great  deal,  read  the 
theatrical  papers,  and  took  care  of  his  hair  and  nails. 

From  the  Shakespearian  organisation  he  went  to  a 
stock  company  in  a  small  Illinois  town,  and  for  the  next 
ten  years  filled  a  series  of  engagements  in  the  smaller 
towns  of  the  Middle  West  where  the  artistic  aim  was  low 
and  salaries  uncertain.  But  just  previous  to  his  arrival 
in  Claysville  he  had  played  seven  months  in  a  melodrama 
sent  out  from  Chicago  and,  on  the  theory  that  during 
working  spells  prepare  yourself  for  idle  days,  he  had 
supplied  himself  with  a  wardrobe  that  he  felt  sure  would 
open  the  doors  of  the  New  York  managers  to  him. 

Then  came  the  visit  to  Claysville.  In  all  of  his  life  of 
shifting  scenes  and  varying  people  he  had  never  met  any 
like  these  courteous,  friendly  Kentuckians.  They  took 
him  into  their  homes  and  friendship  without  hesitation 
and  without  question.  At  first  he  was  suspicious,  then 
pleased.  The  better  part  of  him  touched,  with  the 
cunning  that  his  life  had  bred  in  him  he  watched  and 
studied  them,  caught  something  of  their  manner,  their 
—26— 


The  Least  Resistance 

courtesy,  even  of  their  accent,  so  plastic  and  impression- 
able was  he. 

He  flirted  with  the  pretty  girls,  wise  enough  not  to 
presume  on  their  frank  friendliness.  He  might  have  any 
of  them,  he  told  himself,  but  was  not  quite  sure  about 
Evelyn  Lane.  She  was  indifferent  to  him  and  he  put  it 
down  as  verifying  the  rumour  that  she  was  engaged  to 
Porter  Howe.  This  piqued  his  vanity,  and  he  set  about 
to  make  her  aware  of  his  charm.  It  was  slow  work  and 
kept  him  in  Claysville  all  summer. 

But  one  night  as  they  walked  up  and  down  the  mag- 
nolia-sentineled path  that  led  from  the  house  to  the  front 
gate,  he  triumphed.  She  let  him  put  his  arms  about  her, 
she  raised  her  flower-like  face  to  his,  and  whispered  his 
name.  He  drew  her  close  and  poured  ardent  words  in 
her  ear.  She  was  quiet  in  his  arms;  there  was  no  fer- 
vour like  that  affected  by  actresses  in  a  love  scene,  no 
ardour  like  that  of  other  women  he  had  known.  There 
was  a  calm,  happy  acceptance  of  his  love  and  a  reverent 
offering  of  her  own  love  and  service. 

Bob  was  stirred  by  the  scene — the  night,  the  scent  of 
roses,  the  fluting  of  a  mocking  bird  in  the  distance,  the 
white  moon  peeping  through  the  branches  of  the  mag- 
nolia trees,  and  this  fresh,  fragrant,  untouched  creature 
in  his  arms.  He  thought  what  a  beautiful  stage  picture 
it  would  make.  He  held  her  closer  and  quoted,  "In 
such  a  night  as  this, 

When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  a  noise;  in  such  a  night 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls 
And  sighed  his  soul  towards  the  Grecian  tents 
Where  Cressida  lay  that  night." 

She  listened,  rapt  and  wide-eyed. 

"I  love  you,  Evelyn,"  he  cried,  "will  you  be  mine?" 

—27— 


The  Least  Resistance 

And  in  her  breathless  way  she  answered,  "Yes." 

"When,  dear?" 

"Oh,  Bob — we  must  ask  father  first." 

"Your  father !  Ah,  Evelyn,  love  is  a  secret,  wonderful 
thing — it  concerns  only  two  people !" 

"But,  Bob,  I'd  never  marry  without  father's  consent." 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  heard  that  she  had  read 
into  him  an  offer  of  marriage.  His  hold  relaxed  and  a 
cold,  sick  feeling  assailed  him.  Marriage  ?  Yes,  Evelyn, 
if  any  one,  but  his  way  of  life  made  a  wife  an  impossible 
luxury.  He  found  it  hard  to  support  himself  and  to  add 
to  his  responsibility  would  be  madness.  He  tried  to  find 
words  to  tell  her  that  marriage  was  out  of  the  question, 
but  in  the  face  of  her  love  and  trust  he  was  deprived  of 
speech.  His  training  as  an  actor  stood  him  in  good  stead, 
for  while  the  protest  was  strongest  in  his  brain  he  kept 
up  the  attitude  of  an  eager  lover,  and  later  bade  her  an 
affectionate  good  night. 

The  next  morning  he  thanked  his  lucky  star  that  he 
had  not  spoken  a  cruel,  disillusioning  word,  for  an  early 
visit  from  her  father  wiped  out  his  terror  and  filled  him 
with  a  new  and  perfect  joy.  Mr.  Lane  had,  after  some 
reluctance,  consented  to  the  marriage,  and,  on  Evelyn's 
wedding  day,  so  he  informed  Bob,  she  would  come  into 
one  thousand  dollars  left  her  by  her  mother,  and  to  this 
he  offered  to  take  Bob  into  business  with  him.  But  Bob 
spoke  eloquently  of  his  art  and  his  future,  which  just 
now  with  a  thousand  dollars  in  sight  loomed  bright  in- 
deed. Mr.  Lane  withdrew  after  intimating  that  his  own 
wedding  would  follow  close  on  the  heels  of  his  daugh- 
ter's, and  Bob  shrewdly  surmised  that  this  plan  of  his 
own  lessened  his  objection  to  his  daughter's  marriage. 

During  the  second  week  of  September  they  were  mar- 
ried. Bob  hurried  the  ceremony  as  he  felt  New  York 
and  his  art  calling  him.  They  were  married  prettily  and 
solemnly  in  the  little  church  where  she  had  been  chris- 


The  Least  Resistance 

tened  and  confirmed,  and  through  whose  doors  she  had 
seen  her  gentle  mother  taken  to  her  deep  green  home. 
But  there  were  no  sad  thoughts  in  Evelyn's  mind  nor  a 
doubt  in  her  heart  as  she  stood,  hearing  the  mild-voiced 
pastor  pronounce  the  words  that  bound  her  to  Bob  for- 
ever. As  she  knelt  she  made  a  little  prayer  that  she  might 
make  him  a  good  wife. 

They  left  on  the  afternoon  train,  their  destination  New 
York. 

Seven  hundred  dollars  of  her  money  were  gone  before 
Bob  secured  an  engagement.  She  had  turned  her  in- 
heritance over  to  him,  and  the  knowledge  of  so  much  in 
his  possession  changed  entirely  his  attitude  towards  life 
and  his  profession.  When  he  met  a  haughty  manager 
he  immediately  assumed  a  like  haughtiness.  Offers  that 
he  would  once  have  seized  upon  he  now  refused  as  not  in 
keeping  with  his  position,  and  he  laughed  in  the  faces  of 
those  who  offered  a  salary  that  he  "could  not  exist  on." 

They  were  stopping  at  an  expensive  hotel  in  the  heart 
of  the  theatrical  district ;  they  visited  most  of  the  flashy 
night  restaurants  of  the  city,  and  he  insisted  on  buying 
Evelyn  a  dress  or  two  "that  looked  like  New  York."  Here 
they  had  their  first  clash,  and  he  tested  the  strength  of 
her  will.  She  would  not  accept  his  taste  in  clothes,  with 
its  leaning  towards  vivid  hues  and  willow  plumes. 

At  that  time  Evelyn  was  a  slender,  lithe  girl  of  eighteen 
with  a  country  freshness  to  her  fair  skin;  in  her  eyes 
there  was  never  absent  the  look  of  wonder  and  expect- 
ancy ;  the  nose  slender  and  the  mouth  a  pretty  red  bow — 
she  was  not  noticeably  beautiful,  but  so  young,  tender, 
wholesome — so  unfortified  by  training  and  temperament 
for  the  life  before  her. 

After  their  first  clash  over  clothes  Bob  lost  all  interest 
in  her  appearance  beyond  regretting  that  she  didn't  make 

—29— 


The  Least  Resistance 

a  smashing  show  like  some  of  the  women  who  frequented 
the  Broadway  restaurants. 

It  was  during  this  spell  of  splendid  idleness  that  Bob 
acquired  a  taste  for  the  more  expensive  drinks.  Beer, 
which  had  formerly  served,  was  sidetracked  in  favour  of 
high  balls,  cocktails  and  other  fancy,  system-disturbing 
concoctions.  And  the  money  dwindled. 

Then,  touched  himself  by  fear,  and  urged  on  by  Evelyn, 
he  accepted  a  stock  engagement  that  took  him  to  a  Penn- 
sylvania town.  Here  they  remained  two  months  and 
from  here  went  to  a  Maine  sea  coast  village  to  play  in 
summer  stock.  The  next  September  they  were  again  in 
New  York,  the  thousand  dollars  gone  with  the  first  year 
of  married  life. 

Evelyn  accepted  this  along  with  the  other  surprising 
things  matrimony  had  brought.  She  had  married  Bob 
for  better  or  worse,  and  she  never  acknowledged  even  to 
herself  that  he  was  not  what  she  thought,  that  in  the  fine 
things  he  was  absolutely  deficient.  She  said  that  he  was 
wonderful  considering  his  chances,  that  in  time  she  would 
make  him  see  there  was  another  and  better  way  of  living, 
and  she  dreamed  of  a  great  artistic  future  for  him. 

Two  years  passed  and  found  her  paler,  sadder,  more 
silent,  and  growing  deeply  anxious  as  their  life  took 
definite  shape.  She  saw  that  with  Bob's  tactics  there  was 
little  but  debt  and  oblivion  ahead  of  them.  He  was  drink- 
ing more,  growing  more  sloven  in  his  work,  and,  when- 
ever the  spirit  moved  him,  rude  and  indifferent  to  her. 

Then  there  were  sudden  flashes  of  ugly  things  in  his 
nature  that  she  had  never  suspected — the  appraising  way 
he  looked  at  women  in  the  streets,  and  the  glances  that 
he  exchanged  with  waitresses  in  cheap  hotels.  Evelyn 
was  not  analytical,  nor  inclined  towards  any  morbidity 
of  thought ;  she  sensed  rather  than  thought  out  the  pos- 
sible shipwreck  of  their  future. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  year  of  her  mar- 
—30- 


The  Least  Resistance 

ried  life  that  she  acted  for  the  first  time.  The  company 
was  short  of  girls  and  she  went  on  to  help  out  the  man- 
ager. Her  part  was  small,  but  in  the  make-up  and  cos- 
tume she  was  an  attractive  figure;  she  made  a  hit  with 
the  company  and  thereafter  was  put  in  on  every  possible 
occasion.  She  was  very  grateful,  for  it  gave  her  a  new 
interest,  and  a  feeling  of  security  which  had  been  lacking 
before. 

From  this  time  on  they  secured  joint  engagements,  gen- 
erally in  a  stock  company  where  Bob  was  either  the  lead- 
ing or  heavy  man  and  Evelyn  the  ingenue. 

The  engagement  with  the  Empire  Stock  which  was 
now  drawing  to  a  close,  had  been,  in  many  ways,  the  most 
successful  one  of  their  joint  career.  The  season  had 
lasted  seven  months,  and  salaries  had  been  paid  regularly. 
They  ought  to  have  saved  a  great  deal  of  money  with 
their  salary  of  eighty  dollars  a  week,  but  there  were  old 
debts  to  pay,  clothes  to  buy  and  living  expenses.  How- 
ever, all  of  this  might  have  been  managed,  but  Bob's  in- 
creasing disregard  for  money  and  his  expensive  tastes 
made  saving  almost  an  impossibility. 

They  had  two  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank,  and,  un- 
known to  him,  Evelyn  had  saved  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  dollars.  She  guarded  her  secret  well,  for  it  was 
only  a  question  of  time  before  it  would  stand  between 
them  and  the  open  door  of  the  New  York  rooming  house. 
The  saving  of  this  small  sum  had  required  great  thought 
and  care,  for  Bob  collected  the  salary  and  turned  over 
to  her  just  enough  for  their  living  expenses  and  stage 
clothes,  and  to  save  a  few  dollars  each  week  out  of  this 
meant  numerous  makeshifts  and  sacrifices  on  Evelyn's 
part. 

After  the  first  few  words  about  the  summer  before 
them  neither  spoke  again  for  some  time.  Evelyn  was 
weary  and  Bob  sulking. 

They  walked  down  Main  Street,  bright  with  the  light 


The  Least  Resistance 

from  the  ten-cent  theatres  and  the  ice-cream  soda  par- 
lours kept  by  thrifty  Greeks.  The  street  was  crowded 
with  a  rough,  laughing,  peanut-eating  lot  of  young  people, 
and  the  hard  mechanical  music  of  the  nickelodeon  added 
to  the  sordid  gaiety  of  the  evening. 

Evelyn  was  tired,  but  she  was  glad  that  they  were  not 
going  home  just  yet — glad  that  Harmon  had  invited 
them  to  his  rooms  for  a  farewell  Dutch  supper. 

They  found  him  and  Hilda  St.  John  waiting  for  them, 
and  in  a  little  while  Sam  Foster,  the  director,  dropped  in 
for  a  smoke  and  a  glass  of  beer.  Soon  the  "show  talk" 
was  as  thick  as  smoke  in  the  room.  It  was  how  this  man 
made  a  hit,  and  how  that  one  bullied  a  manager,  and 
what  a  "raw  deal"  some  other  fellow  had  received.  Then 
the  talk  grew  more  personal,  it  was  of  their  past  achieve- 
ments, present  grievances  and  future  hopes.  All  that  any 
of  them  asked  was  a  fair  chance  on  Broadway. 

"If  the  Big  Street  says  I'm  no  good,  I'll  quit,"  Harmon 
said,  shifting  his  pipe. 

"If  I  ever  get  there,  I'll  show  them  a  few  things  about 
productions."  And  after  a  refreshing  gulp  of  beer  Sam 
Foster  went  on,  "half  of  those  actors  down  there  need 
a  year  in  stock." 

"Why  they  don't  know  an  actor  when  they  see  one — 
you've  got  to  be  a  type — or  a  hollow-chested,  cuff-shoot- 
ing Englishman  to  get  a  decent  job,"  Bob  said  fiercely. 

Hilda  nodded  in  agreement,  then  added :  "Well,  stock 
has  its  bad  side,  but  at  least  you  work  right  along,  and 
those  Broadway  productions — five  weeks'  rehearsal  and  a 
week's  salary  is  often  what  you  get.  But  we  all  want 
to  try  it,"  she  finished  with  a  wise  smile. 

Evelyn  was  silent ;  she  had  heard  it  all  so  many  times 
that  it  had  long  since  failed  to  interest  her.  She  had  ac- 
quired the  habit  of  sitting  quiet,  and  apparently  attentive 
while  her  mind  was  far  away  from  the  subject  under  dis- 
cussion. Some  one  mentioned  the  date,  and  like  a  flash  she 
—32— 


The  Least  Resistance 

remembered  that  it  was  the  anniversary  of  her  mother's 
death.  She  and  her  father  had  always  gone  to  the  ceme- 
tery on  this  day  with  flowers.  Now  he  was  married 
again,  and  she  was  here  with  Bob,  and  her  mother,  who 
had  once  been  so  important,  was  forgotten.  She  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  face  in  the  mirror  across  the  room,  and  as 
she  looked  into  her  own  sad  eyes  the  thought  came  to 
her,  "Soon  I  shall  be  old  and  dead  and  forgotten." 

Then,  as  though  in  a  dream,  she  heard  Harmon  saying, 
"We  are  doing  a  lot  of  gabbing  while  little  Evelyn  sits 
still,  and  I  bet  my  hat  she'll  be  on  Broadway  before  the 
rest  of  us." 

Evelyn  smiled  at  him  with  misty,  unbelieving  eyes. 


—33— 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THEY  arrived  in  New  York  on  a  perfect  May  day. 
The  air  was  soft  and  whipped  by  a  light  breeze ;  the 
sun  shone  benignly  on  the  throngs  that  passed  up  and 
down  the  wide  avenues ;  there  was  everywhere  the  atmos- 
phere of  cheer  and  activity.  It  was  difficult  to  imagine 
that  a  city  so  fair  and  alluring  contained  aught  that  pained 
or  baffled  the  human  spirit.  Even  Broadway,  where 
usually  lurked  a  sinister  note,  seemed  a  friendly,  frank 
place,  tempting  and  full  of  promise. 

Bob  and  Evelyn  returned  to  the  rooming  house  on 
West  45th  Street,  where  they  had  passed  so  many  of 
their  enforced  sojourns  in  the  city.  It  was  one  of  those 
large  brownstone  houses,  deserted  now  by  the  class  for 
which  they  had  been  built,  and  had  become  the  abiding 
place  of  the  vast  rank  and  file  of  the  theatrical  profession. 
Nearly  every  room  in  the  block  sheltered  some  eager 
seeker  after  fame.  Some,  grown  weary  with  the  chase, 
and  asking  that  the  stage  yield  a  living  only,  others  em- 
bittered almost  to  the  verge  of  anarchy,  some  offering 
with  set  smile  and  stock  phrases  their  wares — all  hoping 
for  a  chance  to  show  their  worth,  all  believing  that  Fate, 
not  their  own  limitations,  kept  them  from  writing  their 
names  in  electric  lights  along  Broadway. 

As  the  door  of  the  house  chosen  by  the  Waters  was 
opened  they  were  greeted  by  an  Irish  housemaid  and  the 
odour  of  cabbage  soup.  After  some  parley  with  the  land- 
lady they  were  assigned  to  the  third  floor  back.  As  they 
mounted  the  stairs  a  woman  in  a  blue  kimono  emerged 
from  the  bathroom  where  she  had  been  washing  her  hair. 
She  scuttled  into  her  room  at  the  sight  of  the  strangers, 
—34— 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  from  the  room  which  she  entered  the  aroma  of  coffee 
floated  out.  It  was  the  old  life  that  Bob  and  Evelyn  knew 
so  well — the  struggle  with  poverty  and  ambition  in  small 
and  cheap  quarters. 

Their  own  room  they  found  pleasant  enough.  It  was 
clean  and  of  good  size  with  two  windows  that  looked  out 
over  a  small  back  yard,  now  almost  obscured  by  the 
Monday  morning  wash.  The  faded  red  carpet  was  well 
swept,  the  Third  Avenue  furniture  new  and  bright,  two 
comfortable  chairs  in  "mission  style,"  and  a  few  bright 
prints  on  the  wall — Mrs.  Alsop  advertised  her  rooms  as 
"homelike,"  and  to  this  end  the  pictures  contributed. 

Bob  dropped  his  bags,  stretched  himself  and  declared 
the  room  "Dandy !"  He  was  feeling  bright  and  hopeful 
this  morning  and  relieved  to  be  away  from  the  New  Eng- 
land "burg."  After  all  there  was  no  place  like  old  New 
York,  and  he  whistled  gaily  as  he  retied  his  scarf  and 
brushed  his  hair  vigorously.  Then  he  kissed  Evelyn  and 
went  out  to  look  up  old  friends,  and  as  he  expressed  it 
"to  feel  out  the  managers."  He  wouldn't  be  gone  long, 
and  he  might  be  able  to  land  something  right  away — it 
was  time  his  luck  was  turning. 

Of  old  this  talk  had  filled  Evelyn  with  hope,  but  now 
she  scarcely  heard  him,  she  had  long  since  learned  the 
value  of  Bob's  boastings.  As  he  kissed  her  she  asked 
him  to  be  careful  of  his  money.  He  bridled  up  and  asked 
why  she  always  treated  him  as  though  he  were  a  spend- 
thrift. 

"You  are  very  generous,  Bob,  and  you  know  you  will 
treat,"  she  said  tactfully. 

Somewhat  mollified  by  this  reference  to  his  largeness 
of  nature  he  answered,  "Well,  a  fellow  can't  be  a  tight- 
wad if  he  wants  to  get  on,  but  I'll  hold  on  to  my  roll, 
don't  worry."  He  kissed  her  again  and  was  on  his  way. 

The  arrival  in  New  York  did  not  thrill  Evelyn  as  it 
did  her  husband,  or  fill  her  with  a  desire  to  look  up  old 

—35— 


The  Least  Resistance 

friends.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  knew  no  one,  and  the 
few  actors  and  actresses  that  she  might  stumble  on 
possessed  not  the  least  interest  for  her — very  few  things 
had  power  to  interest  her  now,  she  was  exhausted  by 
the  hard  work  of  the  past  seven  months.  The  house- 
keeping, the  sewing,  the  work  at  the  theatre,  and  the 
irregular  hours  and  humours  of  Bob,  her  anxiety  for 
him  and  fear  of  the  summer  ahead  of  them  had  worn 
her  to  a  shadow  of  her  former  self.  Her  eyes  seemed 
larger  than  usual  against  the  background  of  her  pale, 
thin  face;  there  were  hollows  in  the  cheeks  and  her  lips 
were  without  a  vestige  of  their  old  red. 

After  the  departure  of  Bob,  she  faced  herself  in  the 
mirror  and  with  that  honesty  which  was  an  integral  part 
of  her  nature  took  stock  of  her  vanishing  youth. 

"Old — tired — old,"  she  said,  not  sadly  but  appraisingly, 
"and  you  can't  afford  to  be  old — you've  got  to  work  for 
a  long  time  yet — earn  your  living — or  help  earn  it,"  she 
added  loyally.  "You  don't  have  to  work  now,  so  you  must 
do  better."  By  this  time  she  had  off  her  blouse  and  skirt 
and  was  loosening  her  long,  dark  hair.  She  stopped 
talking  aloud,  absorbed  in  the  new  task  she  had  set  her- 
self. She  shook  out  her  hair  and  dived  into  the  travelling 
bag  for  a  kimono. 

In  her  limited  reading  of  the  newspapers,  Evelyn  gave 
her  first  attention  to  the  Woman's  Page  and  though  she 
seldom  had  time  to  carry  out  the  directions  of  the  ex- 
perts she  was  quite  familiar  with  the  forms  and  practices 
necessary  for  the  cultivation  of  youth,  health  and  beauty. 
She  knew  that  to  sleep  properly  the  body  should  be  free 
of  every  garment  that  arrested  circulation,  that  the  room 
should  be  darkened,  but  with  plenty  of  air  to  refresh 
the  lungs;  that  one  should  think  pleasant  thoughts  and 
breathe  deeply.  Two  hours  after  her  arrival  in  New  York 
she  was  following  these  directions,  and  five  minutes  later 
-36- 


The  Least  Resistance 

she  slipped  down  the  embankment  of  consciousness  into 
the  grey,  forgetful  arms  of  sleep. 

This  was  typical  of  her  practical  nature.  Though  she 
was  anxious  about  the  future,  worried  about  Bob,  fear- 
ful of  what  would  follow  his  meeting  with  old  friends, 
and  acutely  conscious  of  the  fading  of  her  girlish  beauty, 
she  was  not  driven  to  restless,  nagging  thoughts.  There 
was  much  of  the  fatalist  in  her.  She  never  rebelled  vio- 
lently against  the  dictates  of  Fate ;  rather  she  accepted  the 
decree,  and  moved  away  silently  to  perform  some  other 
act — an  act  that  might  be  totally  irrelevant  to  the  issue, 
but  that  served  at  least  to  keep  her  in  the  flow  of  life. 
With  all  of  her  silence  and  stillness  she  was  never  still, 
always  unconsciously  moving  on,  building,  pressing  gently 
but  firmly  towards  some  goal.  Her  remarkable  plasticity 
made  her  adapt  herself  to  varying  conditions  and  people 
with  readiness  and  facility.  Had  she  married  Porter 
Howe  she  would  have  been  a  good  wife,  a  devoted 
mother,  a  kind  neighbour,  a  beautiful  housekeeper,  and 
possibly,  had  Porter  pointed  the  way,  a  devout  church 
member.  Her  husband  would  have  set  her  a  pattern, 
and  she  would  have  responded  to  the  pattern  with  stead- 
fast loyalty. 

As  the  wife  of  Bob  Waters,  the  actor,  though  she  had 
no  pattern  to  follow  save  his  selfish  demands  on  her,  she 
was  a  good  wife,  a  conscientious  though  uninspired  ac- 
tress, busy  always  with  the  material  concerns  of  their 
life,  considerate  and  tactful  with  people.  Since  there 
was  no  touch  of  the  spirit  in  Bob,  and  Evelyn  had  not 
evolved  any  spirituality  from  the  depths  of  her  own  na- 
ture, the  love  of  physical  and  material  beauty  was  her 
highest  note.  She  lacked  spirituality,  but  her  esthetic 
sense  was  well  developed  in  spite  of  the  sordid  grooves 
in  which  her  life  had  run  since  her  marriage.  Soft, 
subtle  colours,  good  lines,  fragrance,  she  had  a  real  ap- 

—37— 


The  Least  Resistance 

preciation  of  these,  and  flowers — she  had  told  Hilda  a 
garden  was  her  greatest  wish. 

Few  of  these  beautiful  things  touched  her  life,  and 
such  as  did  were  brought  into  it  by  her  own  nimble  fingers 
and  excellent  taste,  always  lost  on  Bob,  who  had  a  weak- 
ness for  the  bizarre  and  wore,  in  spite  of  her  protests, 
vivid  red  and  purple  ties  and  hose,  and  had,  as  his  latest 
manifestation  of  taste,  indulged  in  a  diamond  horse-shoe 
scarf  pin. 

Evelyn  slept  on  through  the  afternoon  until  the  sound 
of  heavy  trunks  being  bounced  on  the  stairs  and  the  shrill 
voice  of  the  landlady  scolding  the  expressman  awakened 
her.  She  had  been  asleep  four  hours  and  felt  rested 
and  cheerful  after  her  nap. 

She  saw  the  trunks  properly  bestowed  then  hurried 
to  the  bathroom  for  the  cold  plunge  that  the  beauty  ex- 
perts recommended  after  a  sound  sleep.  She  returned 
to  her  room  refreshed  and  ready  for  dinner,  but  Bob 
had  not  returned,  so  she  set  about  unpacking  their  trunks 
and  arranging  their  things  in  the  drawers  and  closet. 
All  of  her  clothes  were  simple  and  dainty.  A  quantity 
of  hand-made  underwear  that  she  had  fashioned  during 
the  long  waits  at  the  theatre,  and  the  faint  fragrance 
that  clung  to  all  of  her  things  gave  her  little  thrills  of 
artistic  satisfaction.  The  simplicity  of  her  wardrobe 
contrasted  forcibly  with  the  theatrical  splendour  of  Bob's. 
Evelyn  shook  her  head  as  she  arranged  his  ties  in  the 
dresser  drawer — it  was  a  sigh  of  resignation,  not  protest, 
that  escaped  from  her. 

When  the  room  had  been  righted  into  some  semblance 
of  home  she  dressed  and  waited  for  Bob.  Six  o'clock 
came,  then  half-past,  and  at  seven,  worn  out  with  waiting 
and  hunger,  she  put  on  her  coat  and  hat  and  went  out 
to  look  up  an  Italian  restaurant  she  remembered  from 
their  last  stay  in  New  York. 

It  was  a  noisy,  garish  place  in  the  basement  of  a  large 


The  Least  Resistance 

brownstone  house,  where  they  served  a  pretentious,  course 
dinner  for  fifty  cents.  There  was  highly  seasoned  soup, 
an  entree  in  a  heavy  brown  gravy  that  disguised  the 
quality  of  its  ingredients,  cold  storage  chicken,  some  let- 
tuce with  garlic  dressing,  potatoes  and  canned  peas,  a 
square  of  chalky  ice  cream,  coffee,  cheese,  and  a  pint  of 
thin,  acid  red  wine,  all  cheap  and  lacking  in  nutrition, 
but  to  Evelyn  it  seemed  very  fine  and  tempting  after  her 
long  fast,  and  the  gay,  talking,  gesticulating  crowd  of 
foreigners  who  sought  the  table  d'hote  as  a  refuge  from 
the  grey  life  of  the  city  cheered  her. 

She  sat  at  a  table  with  three  of  the  noisiest  of  the 
diners,  a  woman  and  two  men,  one  of  whom  was  her 
brother,  the  other  by  all  visible  signs  her  admirer.  They 
spoke  to  Evelyn,  making  her  feel  that  her  presence  was 
in  no  way  an  intrusion  or  a  damper  on  their  spirits.  She 
sat  by  the  side  of  the  brother,  who  seemed  especially 
anxious  to  put  her  at  her  ease.  He  looked  out  for  her 
interest,  calling  sharply  to  the  waiter  in  French  when 
he  neglected  her ;  he  poured  her  coffee,  and  rendered  her 
such  personal  service  as  she  had  not  received  since  the 
old  days  in  Kentucky. 

At  first  it  annoyed  and  confused  her,  and  she  avoided 
his  eyes,  which  rested  with  polite  attention  on  her,  then 
she  grew  more  at  ease  and  smiled  her  thanks  when  he 
served  her. 

The  large,  handsome  French  woman  across  the  table 
spoke  to  him  occasionally,  calling  him  Henri,  and  she 
exchanged  a  few  words  with  Evelyn,  but  for  the  most 
part  she  confined  her  fluent  talk  and  expressive  gestures 
to  the  man  at  her  side,  a  large,  passionate  eyed  French- 
man who  was  openly  enamoured  of  her. 

Evelyn  watched  them  with  interest  when  the  youth  by 
her  was  not  demanding  her  attention.  He  told  her  the 
restaurant  was  not  so  interesting  now  as  in  the  winter, 
when  the  minor  members  of  the  great  opera  company 

—39- 


The  Least  Resistance 

could  be  found  here  every  night.  He  asked  her  if  she 
liked  the  opera,  and  when  she  replied  that  she  had  never 
been  he  was  amazed — it  scarcely  seemed  possible.  The 
opera  was  his  life — without  it  he  could  not  endure  his 
humdrum  existence  in  the  great  silk  importing  house. 

In  the  season  he  went  twice  a  week,  sometimes  oftener. 
He  confessed  naively  that  most  generally  he  contented 
himself  with  seats  near  the  roof  or  standing  room,  but  if 
a  great  favourite  of  his  was  to  sing  a  new  role  he  denied 
himself  other  things,  and  indulged  in  an  expensive  seat. 
He  told  her  what  music  meant  to  him,  how  it  coloured 
his  thoughts,  his  life,  just  as  wine  did  some  men's — then 
Evelyn  understood,  and  she  wondered  where  Bob  was 
at  that  moment. 

But  she  shook  off  thoughts  of  Bob  and  listened  to  the 
young  Frenchman  with  great  interest.  In  all  of  her  wan- 
derings she  had  never  met  any  one  like  this  enthusiastic 
youth,  never  any  one  who  loved  passionately  an  abstract 
beauty,  or  had  a  burning  enthusiasm  for  something  out- 
side of  their  own  interests.  She  knew  plenty  of  actors 
and  actresses  who  had  great  enthusiasm  about  themselves 
and  their  past  achievements,  some  like  Sam  Foster,  who 
really  loved  the  theatre,  but  in  the  end  it  was  because 
he  was  connected  with  it.  Were  people  outside  of  "the 
profession"  different?  She  had  often  tried  to  recall  the 
friends  of  her  girlhood  to  compare  them  with  the  people 
who  now  made  up  her  world,  but  the  outlines  of  her  early 
associations  were  blurred  by  the  shifting,  stressful  years 
of  her  married  life.  This  was  her  first  intimation  that 
"other  people"  were  different  and  it  filled  her  with  a 
vague  joy  and  hope.  And  this  talk  of  the  opera  stirred 
and  excited  her;  all  her  life  it  had  been  a  vague  word, 
expressing  a  vaguer  abstraction,  but  here  was  some  one  in 
touch  with  it — she  asked  him  in  a  breathless  way  which 
opera  she  should  see  first. 
— 40 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

And  he  answered  promptly,  "Carmen — it  is  so  full  of 
life  and  the  grand  passion !" 

She  left  him  with  these  words  ringing  in  her  ears. 
On  her  way  home  she  passed  the  great  Opera  House. 
She  had  seen  it  many  times  as  it  was  in  the  district 
where  Bob  sought  for  engagements,  but  until  to-night  she 
had  never  given  it  a  thought  or  a  second  glance.  Now 
she  stood  looking  at  it,  wondering  if  she  would  ever  be 
able  to  go  in.  Would  she,  sometime,  wrapped  in  soft 
silk,  and  smelling  of  rare  perfume,  pass  through  that 
door  ?  Oh,  perhaps — perhaps ! 

Then  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  young  Frenchman. 
How  nice  his  manners  were,  the  deference,  the  respectful 
admiration  in  his  eyes,  and  she  had  fancied  all  of  that 
was  out  of  her  life  for  all  time. 

When  she  got  home  she  again  faced  herself  in  the  mir- 
ror ;  her  eyes  were  bright  and  the  lips  less  pale ;  even  the 
hollows  in  her  cheeks  were  not  so  noticeable. 

Then  she  began  thinking  of  Bob,  involuntarily  con- 
trasting him  with  the  Frenchman — his  indifference  to  her, 
not  once  during  their  life  together  had  he  shown  the  least 
interest  in  her  thoughts  or  opinions.  He  never  conversed 
with  her — he  soliloquised  before  her.  In  the  beginning  he 
had  laughed  good-naturedly  at  her  ignorance  of  the 
world;  of  late  she  had  ceased  to  exist  except  when  he 
required  her  services. 

But  these  thoughts,  nor  the  knowledge  that  though  it 
was  nearly  nine  o'clock  and  no  sign  of  Bob,  could  kill 
the  pleasant  flavour  of  the  evening.  She  read  the  after- 
noon paper  and  a  theatrical  journal,  but  was  soon  so 
sleepy  that  the  words  blurred  out  before  her  eyes. 

She  wondered  where  Bob  was,  but  she  did  not  make 
the  mistake  that  she  had  two  years  ago,  when  frantic 
over  his  all-night  absence,  she  had  turned  in  a  police 
alarm  only  to  have  him  come  in  at  five  and  rail  at  her  for 
the  next  two  days,  and  sulk  for  the  next  ten  because  of 

—41— 


The  Least  Resistance 

her  infernal  meddlesome  ways.  Thereafter  she  let  him 
stay  out  as  long  as  he  chose,  and  now  she  felt  no  sorrow 
over  his  absence ;  his  power  to  cause  her  grief  had  long 
since  died  out.  At  present  her  chief  anxiety  was  for  the 
money  he  might  waste.  She  sighed  wearily  and  turned 
out  the  light. 

It  cannot  be  recorded  that  Evelyn  prayed  before  sleep 
closed  her  eyes.  The  habit  of  prayer  had  fallen  away — 
she  was  not  hypocrite  enough  to  thank  God  for  blessings 
that  she  did  not  enjoy,  and  she  had  grown  tired  of  asking 
him  to  better  conditions.  She  was  lacking  in  that  spiritu- 
ality which  flees  to  prayer  as  the  home  of  the  soul.  She 
had  neither  religion  nor  conscious  philosophy  to  help  her 
with  her  burdens,  but  she  had  the  marvellous  patience 
and  endurance  of  the  female,  and  youth  enough  left  to 
hope  for  a  change. 

Her  first  lonely  day  in  New  York  closed  and  she 
dropped  to  sleep,  to  dream  that  she  was  wrapped  in  soft 
silk  on  her  way  to  hear  Carmen. 


—42— 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

THE  sound  of  uncertain  steps  on  the  stairs  awakened 
Evelyn  and  as  she  lay  waiting  for  a  confirmation 
of  her  fears  she  saw  through  the  open  window  the  pale 
grey  sky  of  the  early  summer  dawn.  Over  the  great  city 
brooded  its  deepest  stillness,  and  from  her  back  room 
were  excluded  even  the  rattle  of  the  milk  wagons  and 
the  occasional  whirr  of  the  first  cars.  Silence  and  shad- 
owiness  were  everywhere.  Then  again  came  the  sound 
on  the  stairs  and  a  muttered  oath.  She  slipped  from  her 
bed  and  cautiously  opened  the  door. 

"Bob,"  she  whispered. 

"Hall— black— as ".  He  did  not  finish  his  halting 

sentence,  for  he  fell  prone  on  the  landing. 

Evelyn's  one  desire  was  to  get  him  into  their  room 
before  he  had  aroused  the  other  people  in  the  house. 

"Bob,"  she  said  softly  as  she  bent  over  him,  "get  up — 
come  on,  I'll  help  you." 

"Go — 'way,"  he  said  dully. 

"Come  on — I'll  help  you  to  bed." 

The  word  "bed"  worked  through  to  his  benumbed  brain 
and  he  made  an  effort  to  rise.  Evelyn  gave  all  of  her 
strength  to  helping  him,  and  he  leaned  on  her  with  a 
weight  that  almost  crushed  her,  but  she  bore  up  and 
managed  to  get  him  in  the  room.  He  reeked  of  whiskey 
and,  cutting  through  this,  was  the  scent  of  a  strong, 
cheap  perfume.  Evelyn  held  her  breath  in  order  not  to 
be  stifled  by  the  combined  odours. 

At  last,  with  great  effort  on  her  part  and  what  assist- 
ance his  condition  allowed  him  to  give,  he  was  stretched 
on  the  bed.  Evelyn  stood  by,  looking  down  on  him.  Her 

—43— 


The  Least  Resistance 

teeth  were  chattering  from  the  chill  of  the  early  morning, 
and  her  heart  was  beating  wildly  from  the  physical  strain 
of  getting  Bob  to  a  place  of  safety,  but  without  stopping 
to  attend  to  her  own  necessities  she  began  unlacing  his 
shoes.  She  undressed  him  as  far  as  she  was  able — it  was 
like  trying  to  move  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  of 
rock,  so  inert  was  he  in  his  profound  stupor. 

His  face  in  the  grey  dawn  was  of  an  unearthly  pallor  ; 
the  lips  were  swollen,  and  about  the  eyes  a  heavy,  con- 
gested blue  showed ;  his  hands  were  cold  and  on  the  nails 
was  the  same  blue.  His  condition  frightened  Evelyn. 
She  shook  him  and  tried  to  get  some  word  from  him  but 
all  he  could  say  was,  "Go  'way !  Go  'way !" 

After  several  futile  efforts  to  arouse  him,  she  decided 
that  sleep  was  the  best  thing  for  him.  She  stood  by  the 
bed  looking  down  at  the  distorted  face,  and  blamed  her- 
self that  she  had  allowed  him  to  go  out  alone  on  his  first 
day  in  New  York. 

In  her  hands  were  his  coat  and  vest,  and  almost  un- 
consciously she  held  them  to  her  face.  Again  came  the 
strong,  cheap  perfume,  and  walking  over  to  the  window 
she  saw  in  the  stronger  light  a  long  blonde  hair  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  coat.  With  a  shudder  of  disgust  she 
dropped  the  coat  to  the  floor.  A  moment  later  she  picked 
it  up,  went  eagerly  through  the  pockets,  then  through  the 
vest  pockets.  Not  a  cent  was  to  be  found,  and  she  knew 
that  he  started  out  with  ten  dollars  in  his  possession. 
Ten  dollars  out  of  their  two  hundred  gone  in  one  day 
and  a  long  summer  of  possible  idleness  ahead  of  them. 
She  rushed  to  the  bed  with  some  idea  of  demanding  an 
explanation  from  him,  but  the  sight  of  his  swollen,  pallid 
face  checked  her. 

"You  beast!"  she  cried  as  she  gazed  down  on  him. 

"You  beast!"  as  she  stamped  her  bare  feet  on  the  worn 

carpet  and   shook   her   clenched   fist  at   the   prostrate, 

drunken  man.     A  black   resentment   and   wild   anger 

—44— 


The  Least  Resistance 

swayed  her — she  wanted  to  strike  him,  even  to  beat  him 
into  some  appreciation  of  her  opinion  of  him.  "You 
beast !"  she  cried  fiercely,  impotently,  while  the  grey  dawn 
mellowed  into  another  gracious  May  day. 


—45- 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

FOR  several  weeks  after  this  episode  Bob  remained 
sober,  and  conducted  himself  in  a  manner  that 
allowed  Evelyn  to  hope  that  his  contrition  was  deep 
enough  to  effect  a  permanent  change  in  his  way  of  life 
He  was  industrious  in  his  search  for  work,  careful  in 
his  expenditures,  and  really  seemed  more  aware  of  hei 
presence  than  he  had  been  in  a  long  time.  But  as  the 
long  month  of  June  wore  away,  and  their  prospects  did 
not  brighten,  her  experienced  eye  detected  a  returning 
of  the  old  restlessness,  the  old  brusqueness  to  her,  and 
she  knew  that  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  before  dis- 
couragement would  exhaust  his  small  stock  of  patience 
and  throw  him  back  on  Scotch  whiskey  for  courage  and 
hope. 

For  Evelyn  the  time  had  been  profitable,  for  she  had 
carried  out  religiously  the  regime  planned  on  the  day  of 
her  arrival  when  the  sudden  knowledge  of  her  fading 
youth  had  driven  her  into  immediate  effort  to  stop  the 
work  of  destruction.  Through  the  month  of  June  she 
slept,  exercised  and  ate  according  to  the  rules  laid  down 
by  beauty  experts.  She  followed  even  the  final  direction 
that  the  mind  should  be  kept  serene  and  bent  on  cheerful 
topics. 

With  the  simplicity  and  faith  inherent  in  her  nature 
she  gave  herself  utterly  to  this  programme  and  it  served 
a  twofold  purpose — removed  her  thoughts  from  fear  of 
the  future  and  Bob's  deflections,  and  restored  her  phys- 
ical self  to  a  semblance  of  its  former  well-being.  There 
was  something  of  the  old  spring  in  her  walk,  her  figure 
rounded  out  into  softer  lines,  a  soft  red  showed  in  her 
— 46 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

lips,  and  the  hollows  in  her  cheeks  that  had  alarmed  her, 
disappeared.  Her  eyes  lost  the  glazed,  tired  look  of  a 
house-bound  victim,  and  in  their  new  clearness  gave  out 
more  clearly  the  wistful,  expectant  expression. 

Often  people  in  the  street  paused  and  looked  at  her 
in  a  way  that  she  could  not  understand,  knowing  that 
she  was  neither  beautiful  nor  strikingly  dressed.  She 
did  not  know  that  her  eyes  were  a  constant  interroga- 
tion— they  asked  a  question  that  her  mind  had  never 
formulated — a  "why?"  that  lurked  unknown  and  unan- 
swerable in  the  shadows  of  her  soul.  On  one  occasion 
Harmon  Miller  had  told  her  that  she  had  "the  eyes  of  a 
child  who  had  lost  its  mother  at  a  country  fair." 

Usually  Evelyn  accompanied  Bob  on  his  visits  to 
the  managers  and  agents,  as  they  were  looking  for  a 
joint  engagement,  but  she  left  all  talk  of  work  and  salary 
to  him  while  she  stood  by,  quiet  and  secretly  ashamed 
of  his  method  of  attack.  She  saw  him,  the  moment  he 
thought  he  had  made  a  favourable  impression,  raise  his 
salary;  she  heard  his  pointless  jokes  that  were  supposed 
to  beguile  an  uninterested  agent,  and,  worst  of  all,  the 
manner,  half  bravado,  half  obsequiousness,  which  he  as- 
sumed when  by  some  chance  he  interviewed  a  man  who 
produced  plays  for  the  New  York  public.  It  was  an 
interview  of  this  kind  that  formed  a  climax  to  a  month 
of  disappointment  and  served  as  an  excuse  for  another 
all-night  absence. 

Early  one  morning,  before  Bob  had  thought  of  wak- 
ing, the  sound  of  a  letter  being  slipped  under  the  door 
aroused  Evelyn  and,  hastening  for  it,  she  saw  that  it  was 
a  card  from  a  well-known  agency,  one  that  had  shown  a 
persistent  lack  of  interest  in  Bob  and  his  claims.  She 
read  the  card  eagerly,  then  rushed  to  the  bed  to  awaken 
her  sleeping  husband.  As  she  read  the  card  to  him,  he 
sat  up  in  bed,  wide  awake  and  full  of  interest. 

"Let's  see  it,"  he  asked,  as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

—47— 


The  Least  Resistance 

She  gave  him  the  card  and  he  read  the  noncommittal 
words,  "Please  call  at  office  of  Murray  and  Sykes  at 
ten-thirty.  B.  Holmes." 

Bob  read  the  card,  examined  the  postmark  and  read  it 
again.  It  was  the  first  time  the  Holmes'  Agency  had 
taken  any  notice  of  him,  and  to  be  sent  to  the  office  of 
a  first-class  manager  rather  than  to  his  accustomed 
melodrama  producers  was  reviving  to  his  sinking  spirits. 

"Well,"  he  said  finally,  "you  can't  keep  a  good  man 
down." 

"Is  it  very  good,  Bob  ?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Well,  they  are  just  about  the  biggest  fish  in  the  pond 
— and  think  of  them  sending  for  me!" 

"Wasn't  it  the  agent  who  sent  for  you?"  his  wife 
asked  as  she  busied  herself  with  their  breakfast. 

"Of  course  it  was  the  agent;  you  couldn't  expect 
Sykes  to  send  for  me,  he  hasn't  my  address." 

Evelyn's  heart  sank  as  she  heard  these  words,  for 
she  knew  well  the  agent  was  sending  many  others  be- 
sides Bob  to  be  looked  over  by  the  manager,  who  was 
probably  looking  for  a  type.  This  confidence  of  Bob's 
frightened  her,  for  it  meant  that  if  he  failed  his  spirits 
would  sink  to  the  vanishing  point,  and  she  might  expect 
a  return  to  his  old  habits. 

As  she  attached  the  tube  to  the  gas  jet,  lighted  the 
small  stove  and  started  the  water  to  boil,  she  hunted 
about  in  her  mind  for  some  thought  that  would  prepare 
him  for  the  worst  and  at  the  same  time  not  offend  him  or 
dampen  his  hope.  She  was  silent  and  Bob  took  this  for 
a  lack  of  faith  in  his  conjecture  about  Sykes. 

"Why  shouldn't  he  send  for  me?"  he  asked  aggres- 
sively. 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  were  known  in  that  office." 

"Plenty  of  people  know  me  that  you  don't  know  any- 
thing about — I'm  not  so  obscure  as  you  seem  to  think." 

Had  Evelyn  been  quick  to  see  the  humour  of  a  situa- 


The  Least  Resistance 

tion  she  would  have  laughed  at  Bob's  boast,  but  it  was 
a  quality  quite  lacking  in  her  mental  make-up.  She 
went  on  cutting  the  bread  that  was  to  be  toasted  after 
the  coffee  had  had  its  turn  on  the  gas  stove. 

"It  would  be  fine  to  get  into  a  production,"  she  said 
finally. 

"I  should  say  so,  and  cut  out  this  stock  game — they 
work  you  to  death  and  pay  you  nothing.  Jim  Rice  was 
telling  me  yesterday  that  for  a  bit  he  played  in  a  Froh- 
man  show  last  season  he  got  eighty  dollars."  He  did  not 
add  that  Jim  Rice  was  famous  as  a  "bit  actor"  and  was 
paid  well  to  do  those  small  parts  which  the  big  actors 
wouldn't  touch  and  the  cheaper  ones  couldn't  handle. 
An  actor  was  an  actor  to  Bob — he  knew  only  one  in 
whose  ability  he  had  supreme  confidence. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  Sykes  my  salary  is  a  hundred  dol- 
lars," he  said. 

"Now,  Bob,"  Evelyn  said  as  she  paused  in  her  opera- 
tions, "don't  be  greedy;  it  is  better  to  ask  less  and  get 
in  with  the  firm." 

"Nix  on  that  stuff.  If  they  find  you  are  cheap  you'll 
never  get  a  raise.  I  know  those  guys.  Why,  most  of 
these  Broadway  actors  get  a  hundred  dollars,  and  look 
at  the  experience  I've  had." 

"But  managers  don't  know  that,  and  they  don't  care 
much,  you  know.  They  are  looking  for  a  type,  and  if 
you  are  it  they  want  you  and  if  you  aren't  they  do  not." 

"Yes,  that's  how  much  they  know,  as  if  a  good  actor 
couldn't  play  anything." 

Evelyn  sighed  and  discontinued  the  talk,  seeing  that  it: 
was  useless  to  try  to  prepare  Bob  for  defeat  without  a 
disagreeable  scene.  She  went  busily  on  with  her  prepara- 
tions for  breakfast  and  offered  no  further  objection  to 
Bob's  dream  of  success. 

And,  lost  in  his  plans  and  speculations,  he  was  not 
inclined  to  pursue  the  talk  with  her.  He  reached  out  for 

—49— 


The  Least  Resistance 

his  pipe,  which  lay  on  a  table  near  the  bed,  filled  and 
lighted  it,  then  settled  himself  comfortably  on  the  pil- 
lows, having  calculated  that  he  need  not  rise  before  nine 
o'clock.  That  would  give  him  an  hour  to  dress,  break- 
fast, and  reach  the  office. 

In  his  imagination  he  was  already  engaged,  after  a 
flattering  talk  with  old  Sykes.  A  large  salary  was  as- 
sured him  and  his  fancy  drifted  on  to  the  first  rehearsal. 
He  had  not  formulated  any  idea  of  the  part,  but  he 
hoped  that  it  would  be  something  with  dash  and  snap 
to  it,  and  that  it  would  contain  a  good  love  scene — he 
had  always  felt  that  if  he  could  once  play  a  love  scene 
on  Broadway  he  would  be  made.  He  visualised  his 
appearance  at  the  first  rehearsal,  the  interest  of  the  com- 
pany in  this  new  actor,  the  hush  that  would  fall  on  the 
crowd  at  the  sound  of  his  first  line — his  rich,  rolling 
voice  was  his  greatest  pride.  He  passed  from  the  re- 
hearsal to  the  opening  night.  He  had  never  been  in  a 
Broadway  production  but  he  fancied  that  it  was  only  an 
intenser  occasion  than  an  opening  in  Zanesville.  He  saw 
in  fancy  the  audience;  again  the  hush  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  the  applause  that  followed  his  exit,  the  papers 
the  next  day — the  whole  of  this  flattering  picture  un- 
rolled before  him  and  swept  through  his  brain  like  a 
swift,  heavy  intoxicant. 

Evelyn  and  the  sordid  room  were  forgotten.  He  saw 
himself  rich,  sought  out,  flattered  by  women,  patted  on 
the  shoulders  by  prominent  actors.  It  was  bound  to 
come — he  had  always  felt  it,  known  that  he  would  arrive 
if  the  chance  were  given  him.  Across  the  exquisiteness 
of  this  mood  Evelyn's  voice  cut,  reminding  him  that  it 
was  time  to  dress  and  have  his  breakfast. 

Mechanically  he  responded,  laid  by  his  pipe  and  began 
his  toilet. 

Evelyn  watched  him  anxiously,  without  letting  him 
know  that  he  was  observed.  She  noticed  the  rapt,  ec- 
— SO— 


The  Least  Resistance 

static  look  in  his  eyes,  his  honest  obliviousness  to  his  sur- 
roundings, different  from  his  usual,  pointed  disregard 
for  her,  and  she  wondered  down  what  new  road  his 
vanity  had  led  him.  She  saw  him  select  the  coat  with 
the  heaviest  padding  in  the  shoulders,  his  tallest  collar, 
and  the  deepest  of  his  purple  ties.  She  watched  him 
stand  for  ten  minutes  smoothing  his  hair  after  the  tonic 
that  was  to  ward  off  baldness  had  been  applied.  As  he 
adjusted  the  small  diamond  horseshoe  in  his  scarf  she 
involuntarily  shuddered. 

Her  interest,  her  anxiety,  her  shudder  were  lost  on 
Bob,  who  was  tasting  in  imagination  all  the  joys  of  suc- 
cess. The  sight  of  his  image  in  the  mirror  intensified 
his  good  opinion  of  himself  and  his  deserts.  Reflected 
was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  with  a  round,  heavy- 
jawed  face  rising  above  a  high,  tight  collar.  Large 
brown  eyes  stood  out  prominently  from  a  pale,  slightly 
puffed  face,  the  corners  of  the  mouth  sagged,  denoting 
cheap  cynicism  as  well  as  an  irresolute  will.  Bob  saw 
none  of  the  defects.  He  had  always  fancied  his  own 
appearance,  and  the  sight  in  the  glass  but  confirmed  his 
previous  rating  of  his  charms.  His  good  humour  was 
restored  and  as  he  ate  his  breakfast  he  resumed  his  talk 
with  Evelyn. 

"I  was  telling  Miss  Howard  yesterday  that  there  was 
no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  get  a  job  in  a  decent  com- 
pany. Mrs.  Holmes  came  up  and  I  made  it  a  little 
stronger  to  her,  and  this  morning  she  sends  me  to  see 
Sykes.  I  tell  you  in  this  business  you've  got  to  speak 
up  for  your  rights — so  many  actors  go  along  taking  what 
they  can  get,  no  wonder  the  managers  keep  putting  it 
over  on  us.  Look  at  Bill  Holt;  there  isn't  an  actor  on 
Broadway  that  is  as  good  in  character  parts,  and  yet, 
because  he  is  a  shy  old  dog  and  never  says  a  word  about 
himself  he  doesn't  get  anywhere." 

—51— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"But  he  is  always  working,"  Evelyn  put  in,  "and  he 
has  a  home  over  in  Jersey  and  a  bank  account." 

"Oh,  well,  so  have  a  lot  of  clerks  got  those  things. 
We  are  in  this  business  for  something  else  besides 
money." 

This  reached  even  Evelyn's  embryonic  sense  of  hu- 
mour and  she  laughed,  but  she  checked  it,  remembering 
that  it  was  not  wise  to  laugh  at  Bob  on  the  eve  of  his 
interview  with  Sykes.  She  had  heard  so  much  of  this 
talk  from  other  actors  that  against  all  the  promptings 
of  her  practical  mind  she  had  come  to  halfway  believe 
that  exaggerated  confidence  in  one's  own  powers  would 
influence  managers,  therefore  she  did  not  want  to  break 
the  spell  that  Bob's  conceit  had  woven  about  him.  But 
as  this  confidence  was  so  great  now  she  dreaded  the 
reaction.  She  left  her  cup  half  emptied  and  started  to 
dress. 

"Where  are  you  going,  kid  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  with  you — I  want  to  see  Sykes'  office." 

But  this  did  not  fit  in  with  Bob's  idea  of  his  morning's 
triumph.  "You'd  better  not  go  with  me ;  besides  I  can't 
wait  now.  If  I  get  the  hundred  you  won't  have  to  work 
next  year." 

"Well,  but  will  you  come  right  home  and  tell  me  what 
has  happened?" 

"Sure  I  will.  So  long !"  He  snatched  up  his  hat  and 
was  gone. 

Evelyn  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  door  that 
had  closed  behind  him,  then  a  feeble  little  prayer  worked 
from  her  heart  up  to  her  lips:  "Oh,  God,  let  him  get 
something — something !" 

She  cleared  away  the  remains  of  the  breakfast,  washed 
the  few  dishes,  and  hid  the  gas  stove  in  the  closet.  She 
picked  up  the  paper,  but  dropped  it  a  moment  later. 
She  was  too  restless,  too  anxious  to  read.  Then  she  tried 
to  produce  the  cheerful  frame  of  mind  that  was  part  of 
—S2— 


The  Least  Resistance 

her  beauty  culture,  but  a  feeling  of  oppression  and  fore- 
boding clutched  her  and  would  not  be  shaken  off.'  She 
felt  that  Bob  would  have  a  great  disappointment  and 
she  dreaded  the  consequences. 

Evelyn  dared  not  go  out  for  a  walk  or  to  make  the 
rounds  of  the  agents  as  she  wanted  to  be  on  hand  when 
Bob  returned.  She  used  her  superfluous  energy  to  give 
the  room  a  thorough  straightening,  knowing  that  the 
maid  would  not  be  about  for  another  hour,  and  she 
wished  the  room  free  of  other  people  when  Bob  arrived. 
She  had  a  curious  idea  that  she  was  preparing  the  room 
for  a  sick  person. 

"It's  silly  to  feel  like  this,"  she  said  impatiently,  "Bob's 

got  to  learn  to  stand  things "     She  was  interrupted 

by  a  knock  at  the  door.    "Come  in,"  she  called  out. 

The  door  opened,  and  Harmon  Miller  stuck  his  head 
in.  "Hello,  Evelyn,  want  a  visitor  so  early?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  cried,  as  she  ran  to  meet  him.  "Oh, 
I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Harmon."  The  sight  of  him  sent 
a  great  wave  of  courage  over  her. 

"Where's  Bob?"  he  asked  as  he  shook  hands. 

"Gone  to  see  about  a  job.  What  are  you  doing  in 
town?" 

"Well,  I  was  out  of  the  bill  this  week  so  I  ran  down 
to  see  what  is  doing  for  next  year.  So  far  not  much,  but 
I've  got  two  more  days  to  reconnoitre." 

"Having  a  good  season  in " 

"Just  enough  to  get  along  on,  but  it's  better  than  loaf- 
ing, especially  when  you  have  no  private  income,"  he  said 
with  a  smile. 

"Do  people  in  this  business  have  private  incomes — 
everybody  we  know  seems  to  live  from  hand  to  mouth." 

"Some  of  them  must  have  money,  the  way  they  hold 
out  for  swell  jobs."  He  reached  in  his  pocket  for  his 
pipe.  "May  I  smoke?" 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  getting  a  match  for  him. 

—53— 


The  Least  Resistance 

For  a  short  time  neither  of  them  spoke.  He  saw  that 
she  was  nervous,  almost  hysterical,  and  he  had  a  desire 
to  have  Bob  by  the  back  of  the  collar. 

"Well,"  Harmon  said  at  last,  "tell  me  about  yourself." 

"Nothing  to  tell,  Harmon,  just  the  same  old  thing — 
no  work,  prospects  not  very  bright — but  something  is 
bound  to  turn  up,  I  suppose." 

"I  thought  you  said  that  Bob " 

"Yes,  I  did ;  he  had  a  card  asking  him  to  call  on  Mr. 
Sykes." 

"Well,  what  more  do  you  want?"  he  asked  cheerfully. 

"Oh,  you  know  what  that  means !  There  may  be  fifty 
others,  and  Bob  is  always  so  hopeful;  he  won't  believe 
there  isn't  a  chance  for  his  not  getting  it  until  it  is  all 
over,  and  then " 

"Then  your  shoulders  have  to  be  good  and  broad." 

"I  don't  mind  that  so  much — I  mean  I  wouldn't  if 
it  helped  any,  but  it  seems  nothing  helps.  For  a  long 
time  I've  been  feeling  that  something  awful  was  going 
to  happen,  and  now  I  almost  wish  it  would.  I  think 
anything  is  better  than  just  waiting — waiting " 

"Well,  waiting  is  all  right,  but  you've  got  to  help  out. 
It's  pretty  fine  of  you  to  stand  by,  but — well,  I've  known 
Bob  a  long  time,  and  he  isn't  apt  to  think  of  the  other 
fellow;  you've  got  to  think  of  yourself — I  don't  think 
the  scheme  of  things  requires  you  to  go  under." 

"You  mean " 

"Just  about  this:  that  marriage  is  a  business  partner- 
ship— fine  as  long  as  it  works  both  ways,  but  when  it 
doesn't — to  the  ash  heap  with  it" 

"But  Harmon "    It  was  a  new  thought  that  he  had 

given  her.  There  was  a  way  out,  a  way  that  had  never 
occurred  to  her — marriage  had  been  for  her  a  finality; 
you  rose  or  fell  with  it — you  never  thought  of  escape  no 
matter  how  intolerable  the  situation. 

"Well?"  he  asked  as  she  did  not  go  on. 
—54— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Nothing — only  you  always  do  me  a  lot  of  good,  Har- 
mon." 

"Well,  don't  let  me  worry  you.  All  that  I  know  is 
just  what  I've  seen,  but,"  he  went  on  more  slowly,  "but 
I  think  there  is  a  good  deal  for  you  somewhere — maybe 
a  good  deal  for  you  in  this  business — you've  got  a  quality 
very  much  like  several  of  those  big-eyed,  frail,  lady 
stars."  His  eyes  twinkled,  he  rose  from  his  chair.  "I 
must  be  on  my  way,  but  stick  up  for  yourself,  Evelyn; 
if  you  don't  the  goblins  will  get  you." 

Her  questioning  eyes  followed  him.  She  wished  he 
would  say  more.  There  were  things  she  would  like  to 
ask  him,  but  the  old  loyalty  to  Bob  held  good,  and  kept 
her  silent.  She  shook  hands  with  him  gravely,  but  a  rare 
smile  broke  over  her  face  as  he  said,  "Cheer  up,  Evelyn, 
Frohman  will  star  you  yet!" 

"But  I  don't  want  to  star — I  want  a  little  house  with 
a  garden,  and "  She  paused. 

"And  all  that  goes  with  it?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  just  like  a  clerk's  wife,"  she  laughed.  "Thank 
you  for  coming,  Harmon,  and  if  you  see  Bob  tell  him  I 
am  waiting  for  him." 

"All  right — so  long!"  His  broad  frame  disappeared 
and  Evelyn  closed  the  door. 

All  that  day  while  she  waited  for  the  return  of  Bob, 
Harmon's  words  were  in  her  mind,  stirring  faint  ideas 
of  self-preservation.  He  spoke  of  a  chance  for  her — 
could  it  be?  She  had  plenty  of  time  to  think  it  over, 
for  Bob  did  not  appear  until  the  evening  of  the  next 
day,  and  as  usual  his  pockets  were  empty,  and  his  face 
dead  white  save  for  the  blue  about  the  eyes  and  mouth. 

He  was  two  days  recovering  from  this  debauch  and 
when  he  did  his  chief  occupation  for  a  week  was  a  thor- 
ough and  systematic  cursing  of  Sykes,  who  had  kept 
him  waiting  two  hours,  then  entered  the  anteroom  and 
looked  him  over  with  twenty  others,  saying  to  each,  "You 


The  Least  Resistance 

are  not  the  type — sorry,  you  are  not  the  type "  until 

his  eyes  fell  on  a  small  round  man  who  bore  the  un- 
mistakable English  actor  stamp.  Sykes  looked  him  over, 
and  said,  "Come  into  my  office."  Bob  and  the  twenty 
others  filed  slowly  and  sullenly  out  of  the  office. 


-56- 


CHAPTER  SIX 

JUNE  passed  and  July  came  in  on  a  hot  wave  that 
made  the  back  rooms  of  Mrs.  Alsop's  theatrical 
rooming  house  simmeringly  hot  by  day  and  oppressive 
by  night.  This  served  as  a  further  irritant  to  Bob's 
nerves,  and  Evelyn  herself  had  to  fight  down  a  grov/ing 
petulance  and  a  desire  to  cry  whenever  Bob  spoke  sharply 
to  her,  as  he  did  often,  now  that  the  heat  and  a  rapidly 
collapsing  bank  account  had  exhausted  entirely  his  small 
store  of  patience. 

The  month  wore  on  and,  with  no  work  in  sight  for 
them,  the  situation  grew  graver  each  day.  Bob  was  at 
last  aroused  to  the  seriousness  of  the  matter  and  tried 
faithfully  to  get  work.  He  forsook  the  better  class  of 
agencies  and  returned  to  his  old  associates,  the  pro- 
ducers of  ten,  twenty,  and  thirty-cent  melodramas.  But 
here  he  had  no  better  luck.  Either  the  companies  were 
filled  or  the  plays  not  ready  to  be  cast. 

The  first  of  August  their  joint  fund  was  gone  and 
Evelyn  had  to  break  into  her  secret  hoard  for  money 
to  pay  the  last  week's  rent. 

Bob  was  surprised  and  relieved  to  know  that  she  had 
some  money,  as  he  had  about  exhausted  his  credit  during 
previous  idle  spells.  On  the  strength  of  this  new  wealth 
in  the  family,  he  borrowed  fifty  cents  from  her  and  went 
out  to  get  a  bit  of  air  and  "one  glass  of  beer"  at  the 
corner  saloon. 

Evelyn  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  him,  for  he  had  been 
lounging  about  the  room  all  evening,  moody,  and  by 
spells  vituperative  against  the  theatrical  managers  who 

—57— 


The  Least  Resistance 

were  so  short-sighted  that  they  did  not  know  an  actor 
when  they  saw  one.  Evelyn  tried  to  tell  him  that  they 
must  not  mind  their  hard  luck,  that  usually  something 
happened  before  they  were  at  the  end  of  their  row. 

"Besides,"  she  said  with  a  weak  laugh,  "we  can't  do 
anything  but  starve." 

"Well,  I'm  not  after  any  such  thrilling  experience,"  he 
answered.  "I'm  off  now;  won't  be  gone  long,  but  go 
to  bed  if  you  like.  I'll  come  in  quiet."  And  he  was 
off  for  his  glass  of  beer. 

Evelyn  undressed,  put  on  her  thinnest  night  gown, 
turned  out  the  light  and  pulled  a  chair  close  to  the 
window.  In  spite  of  the  heat  and  her  lowered  vitality 
her  mind  was  too  active  for  sleep,  and  besides,  until  the 
night  had  grown  old  and  the  city  cooled  somewhat  from 
its  day's  baking  by  the  August  sun,  sleeping  was  im- 
possible. 

She  was  thinking  of  their  difficult  situation  and  trying 
to  find  some  way  to  remedy  it.  There  seemed  no  chance 
of  work  and  soon  it  would  be  a  question  of  borrowing 
money.  This  borrowing  always  filled  her  with  shame, 
and  now  even  the  thought  of  it  made  her  cheeks  burn. 
Once  Bob  had  suggested  that  she  write  to  her  father 
and  her  answer  had  been,  "Not  with  the  East  River  so 
near  at  hand." 

Something  in  her  tone  had  frightened  him,  and  he  had 
never  made  the  suggestion  again,  but  often  in  his 
thoughts  he  accused  her  of  selfishness  and  a  lack  of 
generosity — her  old  man  would  help  her  out,  he  knew 
it — in  fact  he  was  tempted  to  write  him,  but  he  had  not 
yet  been  pressed  to  the  point  where  it  was  absolutely 
necessary. 

Evelyn  wrote  to  her  father  not  more  than  twice  a  year 

and  when  she  did  her  accounts  of  herself  and  Bob  were 

flattering  enough  to  allay  whatever  fears  her  father  had 

as  to  her  happiness  and  prosperity.     She  had  sent  no 

-58- 


The  Least  Resistance 

letter  home  this  summer — her  courage  had  failed  each 
time  she  made  an  effort  to  write. 

Now,  as  she  sat  in  the  heated  dark  of  the  summer 
night  she  wondered  what  was  in  store  for  them  when 
her  slender  hoard  was  exhausted !  She  thought  how  eas- 
ily they  might  have  saved  a  great  deal  of  money  while 
they  were  at  the  Empire,  and  what  a  comfortable  sum- 
mer they  might  have  had  instead  of  this  nagging,  grind- 
ing time  with  the  awful  prospect  ahead. 

Even  if  they  got  work,  unless  it  came  immediately, 
they  would  go  into  it  so  loaded  with  debt  that  there 
would  be  nothing  but  a  bare  living  in  it  for  a  long  time. 
Bob,  of  course,  would  never  pay  the  debts  unless  she 
urged  him.  But  that  was  all  ahead — it  was  now,  now, 
that  she  must  think  about.  Like  a  rat  in  a  trap  her 
mind  ran  up  and  down,  seeking  some  way  out. 

She  looked  across  the  two  backyards  which  separated 
Mrs.  Alsop's  house  from  the  others  in  the  next  street. 
Some  of  the  back  windows  were  lighted  and  she  saw 
people  moving  about.  She  wondered  if  they  were  as 
harassed  and  anxious  as  she  was.  Were  there  people  in 
the  world  who  hadn't  any  worries?  The  people  on 
Fifth  Avenue,  those  mythical  people  whom  she  read  about 
in  the  Sunday  papers,  and  at  whose  closed  houses  she 
had  looked  with  interest  because  they  stood  for  beauty 
and  elegance — did  they  have  lives  untouched  by  care, 
or  did  they  suffer  too?  Were  their  husbands  neglectful? 
But  in  the  vastness  of  those  great  houses  one  would 
scarcely  miss  a  husband  if  he  stayed  out  all  night.  It 
was  when  you  were  in  one  room,  where  the  odours  of 
whiskey  and  the  cheap  perfume  that  spoke  of  a  street 
acquaintance  nauseated  one,  that  it  was  so  terrible. 
"Nothing  is  so  awful  as  poverty — nothing!"  she  said  to 
herself. 

These  thoughts  and  speculations  were  checked  sud- 

—59— 


The  Least  Resistance 

denly  by  the  return  of  Bob,  who  flung  open  the  door  and 
cried  out  an  oath  as  he  found  the  room  in  darkness. 

"You  weren't  gone  long,"  Evelyn  said. 

"Still  up?"  he  asked  in  a  tense  voice. 

"Yes,"  she  rose  and  went  towards  him.  "Anything 
wrong,  Bob?" 

"For  God's  sake  turn  on  some  light." 

She  felt  for  a  match,  turned  on  the  gas,  and  as  the 
light  flared  up  she  saw  that  he  was  pale  with  fright  and 
that  the  hand  which  held  his  hat  shook  violently. 

"Bob,  what  is  it?" 

"God,  it's  awful!"  he  cried,  sinking  in  a  chair  and 
covering  his  face  with  his  shaking  hands. 

"What — tell  me  what  is  awful !" 

"Young  Baker — you  know  that  chap  that  played  with 
us  when  we  were  in  Norfolk — a  nice  fellow ;  you  remem- 
ber him,  don't  you?" 

"Yes;  what  about  him?" 

"Just  shot  himself." 

"Oh !"  Evelyn  remembered  him  well ;  a  good-looking 
young  man,  better  bred  than  most  of  their  associates; 
called  by  the  members  of  the  company  a  "high  brow" 
because  of  his  fondness  for  books.  They  all  liked  him, 
his  grave,  courteous  manners  substantiating  the  rumour 
that  he  was  the  nephew  of  an  ex-President. 

"When  did  it  happen?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  passing — he  lived  just  four  doors  below  here; 
I  saw  a  crowd  of  people  about  the  door  and  I  went  in— 
Hartley,  who  lives  there,  told  me.  I  saw  him — starva- 
tion got  him  as  much  as  the  bullet,  I  guess." 

"Oh!"  Evelyn  said  again. 

"He'd  been  out  of  work  for  six  months — tried  every- 
thing. Now  I  hope  these  damned  managers  are  satisfied 
— that's  what  they  drive  a  man  to — death  by  starvation 
or  a  gun  when  he  is  tired  of  that!  God!  It's  awful — 
awful — he  was  a  fine  fellow !  The  beasts !  The  brutes ! 


The  Least  Resistance 

The  low-lived "  His  face  twitched,  and  the  words 

of  hatred  and  scorn  rolled  out  with  all  of  the  bitter, 
defeated  energy  of  the  man. 

Bob  saw  the  theatrical  managers  as  villains  who  con- 
spired against  the  actor.  He  never  dreamed  that  they 
were  a  part  of  a  great,  ill-organised  business,  that  they 
were  almost  as  helpless  as  the  actor  in  the  game  of  win 
and  lose  according  to  public  favour.  To  Bob  they  were 
arch  fiends  who  sat  up  o'  nights  planning  how  to  grind 
the  actor  down,  and  how  to  keep  him  out  of  work.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  young  Baker  was  the  victim 
of  his  own  weakness,  that  he  had  paid  for  his  bad  judg- 
ment in  remaining  in  a  business  for  which  he  had  neither 
the  moral  nor  physical  endurance.  Nothing  of  this  en- 
tered Bob's  mind,  and  coming  as  it  did  when  he  was  low 
in  funds  and  courage,  the  tragedy  broke  his  last  cord 
of  resistance  and  sent  him  home  to  his  wife,  weak,  terror- 
stricken,  almost  hysterical. 

"You  said  we  couldn't  do  anything  but  starve — but 
see!"  he  cried. 

"Oh,  Bob,  you  mustn't  let  this  thing  upset  you.  He 
was  a  very  high-strung  young  fellow — not  fit  for  this 
business.  You  know  we  all  used  to  say  that.  He  told 
me  once  that  he  would  die  before  he  gave  it  up.  His 
family  wanted  him  to  come  home.  I  think  he  was 
educated  for  the  law." 

"Gee !  If  I  had  a  family  that  would  help  me  out,  you 
bet  I  wouldn't  stick  to  this  rotten  game." 

"You  think  that  now  but  you  know  you  wouldn't  do 
anything  else,"  Evelyn  said  soothingly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  would — in  a  minute,  if  I  got  a  chance. 
I  wish  I  hadn't  seen  him."  He  shuddered  at  the  mem- 
ory of  the  dead  man.  "He  was  so  white — sick  white, 
and  thin.  You  could  see  his  ribs,  Evelyn;  there  was 
only  a  thin  stretch  of  skin  over  them — starved!  There 
wasn't  a  thing  in  the  room  that  belonged  to  him  but  a 

— 61— 


The  Least  Resistance 

cigarette  butt.  He  had  pawned  everything!"  His  head 
dropped  again  in  his  hands  and  he  rocked  to  and  fro, 
overcome  by  the  sickening  sight  he  had  just  seen. 

This  was  a  new  Bob  and  Evelyn  found  it  the  most 
distressing  one  she  had  ever  had  to  cope  with.  She 
understood  his  fear,  his  horror ;  she  ached  with  sympathy 
for  him,  but  she  could  find  no  word  to  say  to  him.  There 
had  never  been  any  spiritual  understanding  between 
them,  and  now  she  stood  before  him  almost  ashamed,  as 
though  she  were  spying  on  the  sick  soul  of  a  stranger. 

Nothing  she  could  think  of  would  comfort  him  but 
money  or  prospect  of  work — both  were  beyond  her 
power.  There  was  no  philosophic  sense  to  be  appealed 
to  in  Bob,  no  stoicism  to  be  aroused.  She  said  a  few 
commonplace  words  and  returned  to  her  chair  by  the 
window. 

The  thin  gas  jet  burned  feebly  in  the  hot  room,  throw- 
ing a  sick,  depressing  light  over  the  cheap  furniture,  the 
futile  prints  on  the  wall,  Evelyn  in  her  white  gown  in 
the  shadow  by  the  window,  Bob  crouched  in  a  chair,  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands,  emitting  an  occasional  deep 
groan.  For  the  rest,  the  room  was  still  save  for  the  faint 
ticking  of  a  travelling  clock  on  the  mantel. 

"Oh,  God,  I  wish  I  hadn't  seen  him !"  He  lifted  his 
face  to  look  across  at  Evelyn.  Why  didn't  she  say  some- 
thing to  help  him  to  forget — he  couldn't  shake  the  thing 
off.  He  saw  himself  in  young  Baker's  place — his  ribs 
showing  and  nothing  in  the  room  but  an  old  cigarette 
butt.  In  spite  of  the  heat  his  teeth  chattered  and  he  felt 
cold  and  sick. 

Just  then  some  one  in  the  house  across  the  two  back- 
yards started  a  phonograph,  and  a  mounting  tenor  voice 
cut  through  the  silence  of  the  room,  and  for  a  moment 
shook  Bob  from  his  thought  of  death  and  destruction. 

Evelyn's  mind  shifted  immediately  to  the  Frenchman 
at  the  table  d'hote,  and  his  talk  of  the  opera.  She  knew 


The  Least  Resistance 

that  the  great  tenor  was  singing  an  aria  from  one  of  the 
operas.  She  was  not  familiar  with  music  of  that  calibre, 
but  the  matchless  voice  that  wailed  and  broke  into 
hysterical,  heart-breaking  laughter,  stirred  her  senses  and 
lifted  her  from  the  sordid  room  where  Bob  quivered 
with  fear  into  an  atmosphere  of  beauty  and  security, 
under  which  there  lay  pain,  but  she  did  not  ask  that  life 
be  free  of  pain — in  a  dim  way  she  knew  that  for  her, 
at  least,  it  was  the  running  accompaniment  of  every  ex- 
perience. 

"That's  Caruso,  I  guess,"  Bob  said  finally.  "I  wonder 
he  didn't  starve  to  death  before  they  found  he  could 
sing."  Evelyn  made  no  answer,  so  he  rose  from  his 
chair.  "I'm  going  out." 

"No,  Bob,  don't  go,"  she  said,  coming  to  him ;  "stay 
here ;  you  are  tired  and  nervous.  I'll  turn  out  the  light 
and  then  you  can  go  to  sleep." 

"Bed !"  he  said  explosively.  "Do  you  think  I  could 
sleep  after  seeing  that?  I  feel  as  if  I'd  never  sleep 
again." 

"But,  Bob,"  she  said,  standing  by  him,  holding  him  by 
the  arm,  looking  at  him  with  tender,  pitying  eyes. 

"I  can't  stand  the  dark — I  must  get  a  bracer — give 
me  a  little  more  money,  will  you?  I'll  be  right  back." 

Reluctantly  she  opened  her  purse  and  gave  him  fifty 
cents.  Without  further  word  he  took  up  his  hat  and 
left  the  room. 

After  he  had  gone  Evelyn  turned  out  the  light  and 
returned  to  the  window.  The  first  faint  breeze  of  the 
night  blew  in  and  she  drew  it  in  gratefully.  The  singing 
across  the  way  went  on;  now  it  was  the  Sextette  from 
Lucia,  then  again  the  tenor,  now  a  soprano  with  a 
magic  high  note,  then  a  march  played  by  a  brass  band. 

Evelyn's  mind  returned  to  young  Baker,  and  then, 
suddenly,  Harmon's  parting  words  flashed  across  her 
memory:  "The  goblins  will  get  you." 

-63- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"They  got  him,"  she  said  to  herself.  But  he  let  them ; 
he  let  himself  get  carried  under — or  was  he  just  one  of 
the  people  who  had  to  go  under?  Was  she  one,  or  was 
Harmon  right?  Was  there  some  security  and  joy  for 
her,  some  escape  from  the  anxiety  and  sordidness  of  her 
present  life — some  release  from  a  relation  whose  physical 
aspect  was  growing  well  nigh  intolerable? 

Evelyn  asked  herself  these  questions  and  many  others 
while  Bob  was  out  for  his  bracer,  but  her  untrained 
mind,  unused  to  thinking  along  general  or  speculative 
lines,  could  formulate  no  answers  to  its  own  questions. 
Only  this  was  clear — there  was  always  one  way  out — 
young  Baker  had  found  it. 

"When  I  can't  stand  any  more,  there's  that  way,"  she 
whispered  to  the  hot  night. 

True  to  his  promise,  Bob  returned  shortly,  with  a 
quart  bottle  of  whiskey  in  his  coat  pocket.  As  he  poured 
a  generous  quantity  into  a  glass,  Evelyn  saw  that  his 
hands  still  trembled,  that  great  beads  of  perspiration 
stood  on  his  forehead  and  that  the  sagging  of  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  was  unduly  accentuated. 

She  helped  him  off  with  his  coat,  brought  his  slippers 
for  him,  and  occasionally  stroked  his  hair  as  she  passed, 
so  acute  was  her  sympathy  for  this  new  aspect  of  his 
weakness.  Baker's  death  had  destroyed  the  last  vestige 
of  his  courage — it  had  revived  hers.  She  felt  hard  and 
firm  and  ready. 

The  bottle  was  almost  empty  when  Bob  showed  a  will- 
ingness to  entrust  himself  to  the  dark.  He  did  not  speak 
again  of  Baker.  He  grew  silent  and  morose.  The  whis- 
key leaped  to  his  brain  without  stirring  up  his  general 
circulation.  He  lay  in  bed,  inert,  stupid,  conscious  of 
mental  distress,  but  unable  to  remember  its  cause.  From 
her  chair  by  the  window  Evelyn  heard  him  roll  heavily 
over.  Neither  spoke ;  the  silence  of  the  dark,  close  room 
-64- 


The  Least  Resistance 

was  broken  only  by  the  feeble  ticking  of  the  travelling 
clock  and  an  occasional  groan  from  Bob. 

She  waited  until  his  regular  breathing  told  her  that 
he  was  asleep  before  she  crept  into  bed,  but  a  grey  light 
was  showing  through  the  window  ere  she  closed  her 
eyes,  lulled  at  last  to  sleep  by  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
man  by  her  side. 

When  Evelyn  awoke  it  was  half -past  eight.  She 
looked  at  Bob  and  saw  that  he  was  in  a  drunken  sleep 
that  would  last  hours — this  fitted  into  her  plans  for  the 
morning. 

She  had  her  bath,  hurried  through  her  exercise  and 
deep  breathing  by  the  open  window,  and  had  such  break- 
fast as  she  could  provide  without  making  sound  or  scent 
in  the  room.  She  dared  not  make  coffee  lest  the  odour 
arouse  Bob. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  was  dressed,  and  as  she  gave  a 
last  look  in  the  mirror  a  small  sigh  of  satisfaction  es- 
caped her.  She  was  very  pretty  in  the  pink  linen,  cut 
low  at  the  neck,  showing  her  slender  white  throat.  The 
colour  of  the  dress  brightened  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes 
were  shining  with  suppressed  excitement.  A  black  hat 
that  shaded  her  face,  and  relieved  of  sombreness  by  a, 
large  pink  bow  that  matched  her  frock,  completed  her 
costume.  She  drew  on  her  gloves,  lowered  the  shades 
and  left  the  room. 

Until  now  Bob  had  looked  for  all  engagements.  Now 
she  was  going  to  try  her  luck — she  couldn't  be  any  less 
successful. 

In  thinking  it  over  the  night  before  she  had  decided 
that  she  would  forsake  the  places  frequented  by  Bob 
of  late,  the  offices  of  the  producers  of  cheap  melodramas 
where  crowds  of  long-haired  actors  with  their  absurdly 
braided  clothes,  and  actresses  whose  large  hats  and  car- 
nation perfume  sickened  one;  nor  would  she  go  to  the 
agencies  that  supplied  the  cheaper  road  companies,  the 

-65- 


The  Least  Resistance 

crush  there  made  the  room  stifling  and  any  chance  of 
getting  in  a  word  a  matter  of  muscle  and  dogged 
persistence.  She  would  try  the  first-class  managers  and 
the  better  agencies,  for  here  at  least  there  would  not  be 
a  scramble  to  get  in  a  word,  and  one  would  be  treated 
with  some  courtesy  and  consideration. 

As  she  turned  on  Broadway,  a  street  clock  told  her 
that  it  was  just  nine-thirty.  She  was  early;  the  streets 
were  free  of  the  job-hunting  members  of  her  profession 
who  would  throng  it  an  hour  later. 

"I'm  early,"  she  said,  "but  I  can  wait." 

She  stopped  before  a  Broadway  theatre  to  look  at 
the  pictures  of  the  play  running  there.  She  was  so  ab- 
sorbed in  this  that  she  did  not  notice  the  young  man  in 
a  black  and  white  suit  who  sidled  up  to  the  frame  os- 
tensibly to  look  at  the  pictures,  but  in  reality  to  leer  at 
her.  When  she  became  conscious  of  him  she  moved 
away. 

"What's  your  hurry,  Peachy?"  he  asked  in  an  oily, 
friendly  voice. 

Without  answering  she  started  across  the  street,  but  a 
car  and  a  line  of  automobiles  swept  by,  and  a  big  police- 
man took  her  by  the  arm — "Wait  a  minute,  sister."  Then 
he  bore  her  over  in  safety. 

She  thanked  him  prettily,  and  went  on  her  way.  An 
old  fellow  with  a  fine  white  moustache  and  a  flower  in 
his  button  hole  smiled  at  her  next.  Ordinarily  she  would 
have  resented  the  young  man,  the  policeman  and  the  old 
beau,  but  now  they  braced  her  up,  made  her  feel  a  bit 
of  power — allied  her  to  her  kind  in  a  subtle  way  that 
she  could  not  have  defined.  For  so  long  a  time  she  had 
had  no  personal  attention,  no  recognition  of  herself  as  an 
individual  that  even  impertinence  from  a  passer-by  was 
flattering  and  gave  her  fresh  courage. 

She  was  not  sure  where  to  strike  first,  but  she  remem- 
-<56— 


The  Least  Resistance 

bered  the  grave,  kind  face  of  a  woman  in  one  of  the 
agencies,  and  towards  that  face  she  hurried. 

The  outer  office  was  empty  as  she  entered.  Behind 
the  brass  railing  the  agent  was  going  over  the  morning 
mail;  at  her  side  a  young  girl  pounded  a  typewriter  in- 
dustriously. 

Evelyn  paused,  wondering  whether  it  were  better  to 
speak  out,  or  to  wait  for  Miss  Holmes  to  turn  her  way. 
She  decided  on  the  latter  course  and  was  soon  rewarded, 
for  Miss  Holmes  swung  around  in  her  chair  and  smiled 
at  the  solitary  applicant. 

"Good  morning — you  are  an  early  bird  ?" 

"Yes;  have  you  anything  for  me?"  The  phrase  she 
had  learned  from  much  hearing  of  it. 

Miss  Holmes  paused;  she  did  not  remember  that  she 
had  ever  seen  this  young  woman  before,  and  it  was  small 
wonder  that  even  her  excellent  memory  failed,  for 
Evelyn  was  usually  pale  and  obscure  in  the  flamboyant 
presence  of  Bob. 

"No,"  she  said  slowly,  "nothing  now ;  let's  see,  are  you 
registered  here?" 

"Yes,"  Evelyn  answered. 

"Come  in  to-morrow  at  ten."  She  returned  to  her  let- 
ters, and  Evelyn  hurried  out. 

To-morrow  at  ten.  She  would  live  on  that  if  nothing 
else  came  to  her  this  morning.  She  visited  two  other 
agencies,  where  she  was  promised  nothing  definite  but 
told  to  come  in  every  day  as  a  great  deal  of  engaging 
was  going  on  just  now.  It  was  a  new  and  exciting  ex- 
perience for  Evelyn.  Why  were  they  all  so  kind,  so 
encouraging — the  pretty  blonde  secretary,  and  the  other 
agent  that  she  and  Bob  never  thought  of  visiting  because 
she  was  supposed  to  handle  only  the  "big  fellows"  ?  But 
now  this  woman,  whose  voice  fell  like  music  on  her  ear, 
and  whose  fine  eyes  smiled  encouragingly,  told  her  to 
come  in  often.  Why? 

-67- 


The  Least  Resistance 

She  did  not  realise  that  she  was  a  particularly  appeal- 
ing sight  in  her  becoming  hat  and  gown.  The  sum- 
mer's care  had  rounded  out  her  face,  and  with  the  ex- 
citement of  the  morning  there  was  a  bright  colour  in  her 
lips;  even  her  cheeks  were  slightly  flushed;  her  large, 
soft  eyes,  devoid  of  bitterness  and  lacking  the  sophistica- 
tion of  the  usual  theatrical  type,  aroused  a  passing  inter- 
est, if  no  more,  in  all  who  saw  her. 

Two  girls  preceded  her  down  the  stairs  from  the  last 
agency  and  she  heard  them  say  that  they  must  hurry  if 
they  were  to  see  Mr.  Brandon.  Unconsciously  she  fol- 
lowed them  up  Broadway  and  turned  east  with  them  into 
one  of  the  forties.  She  was  as  much  interested  in  the 
girls  as  in  their  possible  destination — their  calm,  assured 
manner,  their  carefully  chosen  clothes,  the  floating  words 
of  "parts"  and  "salary"  and  "Frohman,"  and  other 
scraps  of  their  talk  that  came  to  her.  She  thought  it 
must  be  fine  to  be  so  free,  so  confident  in  bearing  and 
talk.  How  could  they  help  being  successful  ? 

The  two  girls  turned  into  the  dim  entrance  of  a  thea- 
tre and  she  followed.  Close  behind  them  she  entered 
the  manager's  office,  almost  without  knowing  who  it  was 
she  had  come  to  see,  and  what  she  was  going  to  ask  for 
should  she  see  any  one. 

The  office  was  crowded;  four  people  sat  on  a  bench 
that  was  built  for  three;  several  perched  themselves  on 
a  table ;  others  stood  about,  smart-looking  men  leaning  on 
their  canes  in  approved  English  style ;  pretty  girls  dressed 
with  care  and  taste.  There  was  the  odour  of  a  fine  violet 
perfume  in  the  air. 

It  was  a  well-behaved  crowd,  silent  save  for  the  dis- 
creetly modulated  flow  of  talk  between  the  two  girls. 
A  man  got  up  to  give  her  a  seat,  and  she  was  freer  to 
observe  the  people  about  her.  The  knowledge  that  she 
was  as  pretty  and  as  becomingly,  if  not  so  expensively 
dressed  as  any  woman  in  the  room  gave  her  courage 
— 68 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

to  wait  with  this  assemblage  of  people,  all  of  whom,  she 
supposed,  were  well  known  actors  and  actresses. 

The  hand  of  the  clock  moved  slowly  towards  the  noon 
hour.  Through  an  open  door  at  the  left  she  saw  the  ste- 
nographers busy  at  their  machines ;  a  girl  before  the 
switchboard  repeated  her  mechanical,  "Hello,  hello! 
Busy!  Busy!" 

Suddenly  there  was  a  hush.  The  men  about  her 
straightened  up ;  the  woman  next  her  threw  back  her 
white  veil;  even  the  two  girls  stopped  talking  and  ar- 
ranged their  faces  in  set  smiles.  The  opening  of  a  door 
at  the  right  had  caused  this  tension  in  the  room.  Evelyn 
knew,  though  she  could  not  see  over  the  tall  woman 
at  her  side,  that  Mr.  Brandon  was  in  the  room. 

She  heard  his  voice,  a  particularly  amiable  voice,  say- 
ing, "Good  morning,  how  are  you?"  to  those  he  knew, 
and,  "I'm  sorry  but  I've  nothing  for  you  to-day;  come 
again,"  to  others.  He  was  now  in  her  sight  and  she  be- 
held a  tall,  stout  man,  well-groomed  and  suave,  unag- 
gressively  Semitic  in  countenance.  With  a  word  here, 
a  smile  there,  he  got  rid  of  the  crowd,  sending  them  away 
without  work,  but  with  hope  and  added  self-respect. 

Aware  that  they  all  were  to  be  dismissed  Evelyn  arose 
and  with  scarcely  a  glance  at  him  started  towards  the 
door. 

"Did  you  want  to  see  me,  young  lady?"  his  voice 
stopped  her. 

She  turned ;  his  smile  encouraged  her  so  that  she  was 
able  to  say  distinctly,  and  with  a  bit  of  archness,  "I 
wanted  an  engagement." 

"Well,  you  didn't  ask  for  it." 

"I  thought " 

"Come  into  my  office,"  he  said,  without  giving  her  a 
chance  to  finish. 

She  followed  him  in,  and  he  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  As  he  walked  over  to  his  desk  she  had  time  to 


The  Least  Resistance 

take  in  her  surroundings.  A  rich-looking  room  with  its 
fine,  heavy  furniture  and  soft  rugs,  and  the  pictures  of 
famous  stars  under  Mr.  Brandon's  management,  hung 
on  the  walls.  The  most  impressive  thing  in  the  room 
was  the  broad,  flat  desk  before  which  the  manager  seated 
himself,  after  indicating  a  chair  for  her. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked. 

"Evelyn  Waters." 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  here  before?" 

"No."   " 

"I  thought  your  face  was  new  to  me — what  experi- 
ence have  you  had  ?" 

"Stock  only,"  she  answered. 

"Umph !"  he  said  slowly ;  "ingenues,  I  suppose.  What 
is  your  salary,  Miss  Waters?" 

She  smiled  a  wry  little  smile  that  pleased  him. 
"What  I  could  get — not  much  ever." 

"Well,  now,  young  lady,  I'm  going  to  put  on  a  play 
next  month  and  I've  been  looking  for  a  girl  just  your 
type.  I  don't  know  how  well  you  can  act,  but  this  part 
doesn't  require  much  acting — it  carries  the  sympathy  of 
the  play — it  has  to  be  a  fragile  ingenue,  with  a  touch 
of  pathos  in  her  face.  If  you  can  play  the  part,  I'll 
give  you  fifty  dollars  to  start  with,  and,  if  you  are  a  suc- 
cess, you'll  soon  be  earning  twice  that  much.  How  does 
that  sound?" 

For  a  moment  Evelyn  did  not  look  at  him,  her  heart 
was  beating  wildly,  she  could  scarcely  believe  that  she 
had  heard  aright. 

"Mr.  Brandon — my  husband — would  there  be  any- 
thing for  him — we  want " 

"No,  there  would  not,"  he  said  in  a  hard  voice.  "I 
don't  give  joint  engagements,  even  in  road  companies — 
don't  believe  in  them.  Last  year  a  man  and  his  wife 
almost  broke  up  a  company  of  mine  out  in  Oregon. 
They  always  make  trouble." 
—70- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"But  I'm  not  a  trouble  maker."  She  looked  so 
innocent  that  his  anger  forsook  him. 

"No  you  don't  look  like  one,  but  I  don't  know  any- 
thing about  your  husband.  Besides,"  he  said  more 
kindly,  "this  is  a  Broadway  production  and  is  cast  ac- 
cording to  type — it  was  just  because  you  looked  the 
part  better  than  any  girl  I've  seen  that  I  offered  you 
the  part.  I'm  sorry."  He  lowered  his  eyes  to  the  desk, 
and  Evelyn  knew  that  she  was  dismissed. 

She  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  him — it  was  her 
first  chance,  and  it  was  hard  to  give  it  up  without  a 
word.  She  noticed,  with  that  sight  which  acts  independ- 
ently of  the  will,  how  well  his  coat  fit  across  the  shoul- 
ders and  of  what  soft  stuff  it  was  made,  how  his  tie 
harmonised  with  the  shirt.  She  saw  the  pearl  pin,  the 
clear  white  collar  and  soft  cuffs  that  extended  below 
the  coat  sleeves,  the  heavy  gold  ring  on  the  well-kept 
hand — the  nails  standing  out  clean  and  well  trimmed, 
but  without  the  high  polish  affected  by  Bob.  She  no- 
ticed again  the  desk  with  its  handsome  appointments, 
the  silver  frame  with  a  woman's  face  in  it,  the  silver 
clock  that  ticked  softly — the  only  sound  in  the  room. 

All  of  this  she  saw  in  a  second,  then  by  contrast  the 
third  floor  back  at  Mrs.  Alsop's;  Bob  in  his  drunken 
stupor;  the  years  of  poverty  and  hardship  ahead;  her 
self  grown  old — she  had  never  seen  it  so  clearly  be- 
fore, never  so  objectively. 

Brandon  looked  up  at  her  and  in  his  face  there  was 
shrewdness,  kindness,  and  a  sensual  appreciation  of  her 
youth  and  beauty. 

"When  you  get  your  divorce  come  back  to  me,"  he 
said. 

"Divorce?" 

"That  was  just  my  little  joke,"  he  said,  then  he  grew 
more  serious:  "But  I  like  your  type,  it's  appealing. 

—71— 


The  Least  Resistance 

When  you  are  free,  if  you  are  still  young  and  pretty, 
come  back  to  me — I'll  do  something  for  you." 

He  returned  to  his  letters,  and  Evelyn,  accepting  this 
as  the  end  of  the  interview,  opened  the  door  and  went 
out. 

Down  the  stairs  she  hurried,  out  through  the  dim 
entrance  to  the  sunlight  of  the  streets.  Her  brain  was 
whirling,  her  pulses  beating  wildly.  She  wanted  to 
run,  then  she  wanted  to  stop  some  passer-by  to  tell  of 
this  new  thing  in  her  heart,  to  tell  that  she  was  not 
destined  to  "go  under" — that  Brandon,  the  manager, 
had  said  that  he  would  give  her  a  chance.  She  looked 
up  and  her  eye  caught  the  electric  letters  that  spelled  the 
name  of  the  star  at  this  theatre — for  a  moment  she 
thought  the  outlines  spelled  her  own  name;  she  paused, 
looked  again. 

"But  they  may  be  there  some  day,"  she  said,  "some 
day." 

As  she  opened  the  door  of  her  room  the  sunlight  was 
streaming  in  the  windows  and  in  the  full  light  sat 
Bob,  in  his  pajamas,  smoking  and  reading  the  Telegraph. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  thought  you'd  never  come — I'm 
starving." 

"Why  didn't  you  go  out,  Bob?" 

"Without  a  cent  in  my  pocket — they  aren't  giving 
away  food  on  Broadway,  are  they  ?" 

"Oh !"  she  said  as  she  drew  off  her  gloves. 

"Hurry  up  and  I'll  tell  you  some  good  news,"  he  said, 
smiling  wisely  at  her. 

"What?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"Look  here — came  an  hour  ago,  a  telegram  from  Jack 
Bolton — wants  us  to  join  the  company  immediately." 

"What  company?" 

"The  Western,  'No  Guiding  Hand.'  They  have  a 
dandy  route  all  through  the  Middle  West.  I  know  that 
time.  See,  we  are  to  jump  to  Galesburg.  They'll  give 
—72— 


The  Least  Resistance 

us  seventy-five  joint — that  isn't  so  bad — better  than 
this."  For  some  reason  Bob  felt  it  necessary  to  urge 
the  advantages  of  this  offer.  "Well,"  he  said  as  she 
made  no  answer,  "I'm  tickled  to  death — aren't  you?" 

"Yes — yes — it's  a  living,  that's  something  to  be  grate- 
ful for,  I  suppose.  Here's  some  money.  Go  out  and 
get  your  breakfast,  Bob — I'm  too  tired  to  fix  it  for  you 
— especially  if  I  have  to  pack." 

"Where  have  you  been  this  morning — all  dolled  up?" 
he  asked,  noticing  for  the  first  time  that  she  looked 
unusually  well. 

"Oh,  several  places,"  she  said  evasively. 

"Tough  work  going  the  rounds,  isn't  it?  No  wonder 
you  feel  down." 

Evelyn  made  no  answer,  and  by  an  exercise  of  will 
that  was  almost  superhuman,  she  controlled  her  face 
and  voice  while  he  dressed  leisurely  and  expanded  on 
the  new  engagement.  It  would  be  a  long  season,  short 
jumps,  sure  money — "not  so  bad  when  you  consider 
what  a  state  the  business  is  in  this  year." 

The  new  engagement  had  no  attraction  for  Evelyn 
beyond  the  fact  that  it  kept  them  from  debt  or  starva- 
tion— and  as  she  looked  at  it  now  that  was  not  a  great 
consideration.  She  was  going  into  a  living  death. 
Young  Baker  at  least  had  rest,  but  they  would  play 
twice  a  day  in  small,  ill-ventilated  theatres — play  a  crude, 
loud  melodrama  that  shocked  every  artistic  instinct  one 
had;  they  would  travel  every  day,  for  the  week  stands 
were  far  apart.  She  would  work  and  save,  and  ache  in 
mind  and  body,  while  Bob  squandered  the  money  and 
showed  himself  in  gay  ties  on  street  corners.  At  the 
end  of  the  season  they  would  return  to  Mrs.  Alsop's 
to  take  up  the  old  struggle — it  had  happened  time  after 
time,  and  each  year  she  was  older.  Soon  she  would  not 
be  "young  and  pretty" — she  would  never  be  "free !" 

Evelyn  had  a  wild  impulse  to  run  to  Brandon  to  tell 

—73— 


The  Least  Resistance 

him  that  she  was  "free,"  to  ask  him  to  give  her  a  chance, 
she  couldn't  go  out  with  that  awful  melodrama.  Sup- 
pose he  took  her,  gave  her  a  chance,  what  would  be- 
come of  Bob?  Who  would  see  that  he  caught  trains, 
that  he  was  sober  enough  for  a  performance?  Who 
would  take  care  of  him?  No  one,  and  it  would  be  only 
a  short  time  before  he  lost  his  engagement,  and  then 
what  ?  No,  she  couldn't  leave  him,  she  couldn't — she  had 
married  him  for  better  or  worse,  she  must  keep  her 
bargain. 

While  these  thoughts  were  working  in  her  mind  she 
was  moving  about  collecting  their  belongings,  scarcely 
conscious  that  Bob  was  whistling  a  gay  tune  as  he  ad- 
justed his  tie. 

"Get  the  trunks  ready,  Evelyn,  we  may  have  to  jump 
out  to-night.  I'm  going  up  to  the  office  to  get  our 
transportation." 

"They'll  be  ready." 

"See  here,  cheer  up — this  may  not  be  a  swell  job, 
but  it's  a  living.  We'll  save  money  this  year,  and  next 
time  hold  out  for  a  good  one." 

"Oh,  Bob!  will  you  save  this  time,  sure?" 

"Sure — I'll  be  a  picture  of  thrift."  He  came  over 
and  put  his  arms  about  her.  "Say,  Evelyn,  give  me  fif- 
teen dollars — I  want  to  get  my  watch  out  of  hock." 

"Why "  she  hesitated. 

"Don't  be  mean,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  to  leave  it — 
it  was  your  first  Christmas  present  to  me." 

She  slipped  from  his  embrace  and  gave  him  the  fif- 
teen dollars.  She  hated  him  for  the  first  time — the  touch 
of  sentiment  with  self-seeking  at  its  back  filled  her  with 
a  sudden,  deep  loathing  for  him. 

"And  that  fifty  cents  for  breakfast,  you  might  make 
a  dollar  now  that  we  have  a  job.     Thanks — good-bye, 
kid,  see  you  later." 
—74— 


The  Least  Resistance 

He  was  gone.  She  stood  for  a  moment  staring  at 
the  door  that  closed  after  him. 

"Oh !"  she  said  at  last,  drawing  her  breath  in  through 
the  clenched  teeth.  She  felt  the  blood  burn  in  her 
cheeks,  lashed  up  from  the  tempest  in  her  heart.  "Oh !" 
this  time  wildly — then  came  the  checking  thought:  "I 
mustn't  get  old  and  hard — I  must  keep  young  and  sweet 
— appealing — oh,  God!"  She  sank  on  her  knees  by  the 
bed  and  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow,  the  words  choking 
out,  "young — sweet — appealing !" 

They  left  that  night  at  seven  for  Galesburg  to  join 
the  "No  Guiding  Hand"  company.  Before  their  de- 
parture Evelyn  paid  the  room  rent,  and  Bob  borrowed 
ten  dollars  from  her  to  pay  a  pressing  creditor. 


—75— 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

THEY  reached  Galesburg  just  in  time  to  leave  with 
the  company,  which  was  moving  on  to  the  next 
one-night  stand.     They  had  been  given  their  parts  in 
New  York,  and  were  to  open  Saturday  night. 

Evelyn's  part,  being  the  conventional  ingenue  of  no 
great  length,  she  had  absorbed  on  the  train,  and  helped 
Bob  with  his  longer  and  more  important  role.  He  was 
the  hero  and  passed  through  experiences  ranging  from 
his  mother's  farewell  kiss  to  the  saving  of  his  sweet- 
heart from  an  opium  joint  where  she  had  been  lured 
by  the  villain.  Bob  had  to  knock  out  two  Chinese  and 
in  a  whirlwind  bout  throw  the  villain  across  a  table, 
choke  from  him  the  whereabouts  of  the  heroine,  then 
dash  him  to  the  floor,  swearing:  "Your  blood  shall  not 
make  me  break  my  word  to  my  mother  to  keep  my  hands 
clean.  Go  and  sin  no  more !" 

But  a  girl  of  the  opium  joint  who  had  been  lured 
from  innocence  to  vice  by  this  same  villain  enters,  sees 
him  and  stabs  him,  making  her  escape  while  the  hero 
and  heroine  stand  clasped  in  each  other's  arms. 

To  Bob  this  was  a  return  to  his  native  heath.  He 
had  played  for  years  before  his  marriage  in  melodramas 
similar  to  this.  An  understanding  of  the  situations  came 
easily  to  him  and  the  lines  were  like  old  friends.  It 
was  just  the  kind  of  part  that  he  liked,  free  in  its 
drawing,  spacious,  magnanimous — it  gave  him  a  sensa- 
tion of  power  and  nobility.  The  maudlin  sentiment,  the 
fatuity  of  the  comic  relief,  the  mock  heroism,  the  too- 
good-to-be-true  heroine  were  translated  by  him  into  qual- 
ities of  poetic  charm. 
-76- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"This  is  some  drama,"  he  said  to  Evelyn  as  they  left 
the  theatre  after  seeing  the  play  for  the  first  time,  "but 
that  fellow  isn't  strong  enough  for  Jim  Montague." 

"Yes,  it  will  suit  you,"  she  said  perfunctorily. 

"Yes,  and  I'll  make  them  sit  up  with  my  fight.  Re- 
member the  one  I  did  in  'The  City  of  Sin'?" 

"Yes."  They  were  on  their  way  to  the  hotel  and  she 
tried  to  show  some  interest  in  his  talk,  but  she  felt  weak 
and  discouraged.  She  had  resolutely  put  away  the  mem- 
ory of  her  talk  with  Brandon,  but  she  couldn't  conquer 
the  sadness  that  came  with  the  knowledge  of  what  she 
might  be  making  of  her  life. 

But  soon  they  were  caught  up  in  the  life  of  the  com- 
pany, and  New  York  and  the  incidents  of  the  past 
summer  grew  fainter  in  the  hard  routine  of  their  day's 
work.  With  few  exceptions,  the  tour  was  made  up  of 
one-night  stands  which  often  necessitated  the  company 
leaving  after  the  night's  performance  to  make  the  next 
town  in  time  for  the  matinee.  As  they  travelled  usu- 
ally on  local  trains,  there  were  no  sleepers  to  be  had, 
even  had  the  salaries  of  the  company  permitted  such 
luxuries. 

After  five  weeks  of  hard  travelling,  broken  rest,  and 
two  performances  a  day,  Evelyn  was  worn  out  and 
Bob  in  open  rebellion.  But  the  prospect  of  three  nights 
in  Grand  Rapids  the  next  week,  and  after  that  two 
weeks  of  towns  connected  by  short  trolley  rides,  loomed 
before  them  like  the  promised  land,  and  made  it  pos- 
sible to  endure  present  hardships. 

The  company,  including  the  manager  and  the  work- 
ing staff,  consisted  of  fifteen  people.  They  carried  lit- 
tle baggage  and  less  scenery  and  each  actor,  except  the 
principals,  played  two  parts.  The  property  man  was 
the  Chinaman  in  the  last  act,  and  Bob's  mother  of  the 
first  act  was  the  girl  of  the  opium  den  in  the  last. 

They  were  a  kindly  disposed,  well-behaved,  hard- 

—77— 


The  Least  Resistance 

working  set  of  people.  There  were  three  married  cou- 
ples in  the  company,  who  gave  it  a  stability  lacking  in 
so  many  organisations  of  its  kind.  The  only  single 
woman  was  Mary  Leighton. 

Miss  Leighton  was  a  serious,  fine-faced  woman  in  the 
middle  twenties.  She  was  a  good  actress,  giving  even 
the  ridiculous  part  that  she  played  a  seeming  of  reality 
and  charm.  She  was  conscientious,  never  once  allow- 
ing her  work  to  grow  sloven  and  uneven  just  because 
she  was  removed  from  the  eye  of  the  New  York  office. 
In  the  beginning  Miss  Leighton  had  inspired  Evelyn 
with  great  admiration  in  which  there  was  a  touch  of 
envy,  for  her  ability  to  curl  up  and  sleep  in  an  un- 
comfortable day  coach.  The  train  had  scarcely  pulled 
out  of  the  station  before  Mary  had  taken  off  her  hat, 
slipped  on  a  silk  cap,  blown  up  an  air  pillow,  and,  cov- 
ered from  head  to  foot  by  her  long  cloak,  was  success- 
fully wooing  sleep. 

But,  try  as  she  might,  Evelyn's  nerves  would  not 
relax  in  the  dirty,  smelly,  badly  ventilated  coach,  with 
its  sickly  gas  light  at  night  and  the  flat  stretch  of  coun- 
try by  day.  She  tried  to  rest,  for  she  realised  that  it 
was  this  sleep  snatched  on  trains  which  kept  Mary  in 
such  good  condition,  but  as  she  lay  with  her  head  on 
her  bag,  her  feet  resting  on  the  seat  opposite,  or  when 
the  train  was  crowded,  jack-knife  fashion  on  one  seat, 
it  was  not  sleep  that  came,  but  tormenting  thoughts, 
wild  thoughts,  hopeless  thoughts — all  of  them  revolv- 
ing about  a  burning,  central  question — "Is  it  going  to  be 
like  this  always?" 

She  never  evolved  an  answer,  but  she  was  helped 
in  her  groping  toward  some  definite  idea  of  how  she 
wanted  to  shape  her  life  by  a  new  influence — the  last 
thing  she  had  ever  expected,  the  friendship  of  another 
woman. 

Mary  Leighton  was  a  California  girl,  well  born,  well 
-78- 


The  Least  Resistance 

educated,  who  had  felt  early  the  call  to  the  stage.  She 
held  to  it  through  her  childhood,  through  the  years  at 
college,  and  after  the  death  of  her  mother  she  took  her 
small  inheritance  and  descended  on  New  York,  fired 
with  a  living  ambition  and  sustained  by  the  belief  that 
one  day  she  would  be  America's  foremost  actress. 

Aware  that  work,  especially  for  the  unexperienced, 
wasn't  to  be  had  for  the  asking,  and  that  she  must  make 
her  small  amount  of  money  last,  she  lived  for  the  first 
year  in  a  tiny  room  on  the  top  floor  of  a  shabby  house, 
and  subsisted  largely  on  crackers  and  milk  and  the 
cheaper  cereals.  It  was  a  long,  hard  year,  but  she 
came  out  of  it  still  hopeful,  even  cheerful.  Then  came 
her  first  engagement,  an  ingenue  part  in  a  cheap  melo- 
drama. It  offended  her  taste,  her  every  instinct,  but 
she  played  it  for  a  whole  season  and  returned  to  New 
York  with  a  fair-sized  bank  account,  increased  knowl- 
edge of  life  and  acting,  and  the  old  high  faith  in  her 
own  future. 

There  was  another  long  year  of  waiting.  She  held  out 
to  the  last  of  her  resources  and  again  a  cheap  melo- 
drama opened  its  arms  to  her.  Since  then  she  had  made 
many  attempts  to  better  her  condition,  but  the  stock  com- 
panies which  she  joined  were  unsuccessful,  and  her  one 
Broadway  experience  was  six  weeks  of  rehearsal  and 
three  nights  of  playing.  Now  she  was  back  with  the 
firm  which  had  given  her  her  first  engagement,  play- 
ing the  lead  in  "No  Guiding  Hand." 

She  didn't  like  it,  but  it  was  better  than  starvation 
in  a  New  York  rooming-house ;  besides,  in  the  last  year 
new  responsibilities  had  come,  and  she  had  to  keep 
working.  Her  younger  sister  had  been  left  a  widow 
with  a  little  girl  to  care  for  and  no  means  of  support. 
Out  of  her  salary  of  fifty  dollars  Mary  sent  her  ten 
every  week,  and  at  the  same  time  put  five  in  the  bank 
so  that  the  young  mother  and  baby  would  have  a  fund 

—79— 


The  Least  Resistance 

when  she  was  out  of  work.  Out  of  the  remainder  of 
her  salary  she  saved  as  much  as  she  could  in  order 
to  try  again  for  a  real  engagement. 

This  story  gradually  unfolded  to  Evelyn  as  the  two 
girls  became  friends.  This  friendship  was  a  new  ex- 
perience to  Evelyn,  and  compensated  her  for  much 
that  her  life  lacked  at  this  time.  Since  her  girlhood  she 
had  known  little  of  the  companionship  of  her  own  sex 
— the  kindly  patronage  of  Hilda  being  the  nearest  ap- 
proach, and  had  in  reality  meant  nothing  but  the  agree- 
able passing  of  the  hours  spent  in  the  theatre.  But  with 
Mary  Leighton  a  new  world  opened  up  to  her,  and  for 
the  first  time  the  waves  of  the  great  Feminist  Move- 
ment washed  up  into  her  consciousness,  not  that  she 
took  hold  of  the  subjects  which  interested  and  agitated 
the  women  in  the  fight,  but  she  had  suffered  and  known 
injustice  and  she  felt  allied  to  all  the  women  in  the 
world  who  were  struggling  for  what  Mary  called  "a 
square  deal." 

The  two  girls  had  long  talks.  There  was  little  oppor- 
tunity at  the  theatre,  for  Mary  was  on  the  stage  most  of 
the  time  suffering  the  persecutions  of  the  villain.  But 
there  were  hours  on  the  trains,  and  often  after  the  even- 
ing performance  when  Bob  was  still  draped  about  some 
neighbouring  bar,  they  threshed  out  the  problems  that 
confused  and  vexed  them  as  women  in  general,  and 
Mary  in  particular. 

Evelyn  had  little  to  say  of  her  own  life,  of  her  rela- 
tion to  Bob,  and  her  hopes  and  fears  for  the  future.  As 
time  went  on  she  grew  more  silent,  and  this  silence  in- 
tensified Mary's  sympathy,  and  she  tried  more  and  more 
to  open  Evelyn's  mind,  to  fill  her  with  some  desire  to 
take  hold  of  life  and  wring  from  it  some  of  the  beauty 
and  joy  that  were  her  birthright. 

In  spite  of  her  own  apparent  defeat,  the  hardships 
of  her  life,  and  the  thwarting  of  her  ambition,  Mary 


The  Least  Resistance 

had  kept  a  fine  sanity,  and  had  evolved  a  philosophic 
attitude  of  mind  that  helped  her  gather  conscious  profit 
from  adversity.  In  reality,  there  was  no  defeat  for 
her;  she  reacted  with  promptness  and  courage  from 
every  blow  delivered  by  Fate.  That  such  a  woman 
should  be  found  in  a  cheap  melodramatic  company  was 
a  joke  that  the  same  Fate  perpetrated  in  dead  serious- 
ness and  with  an  eye  to  the  future. 

"I  can  see  now,"  she  said  to  Evelyn,  led  on  by  the 
gentle,  insistent  curiosity  of  the  latter,  "that  if  I  had 
had  an  easy  time  in  the  beginning,  gone  from  one  good 
engagement  to  another,  been  in  first-class  companies  with 
fine  associations,  by  this  time  a  part  of  me — a  part  that 
now  seems  to  me  the  most  important — would  have  been 
completely  atrophied.  But  now  I  feel  so  tremendously 
alive — so  sure  of  the  joy  and  beauty  and  possibilities 
of  life — of  making  one's  life.  I  feel  like  saying  it  to 
my  little  sister  who  is  letting  her  trouble  crush  her — 
to  you,  too — to  that  poor  burlesque  girl  we  met  in  the 
last  town  who  was  crying  because  her  husband  had 
gone  off  with  another  woman." 

"But  you've  never  been  married,"  Evelyn's  concrete 
mind  grasping  its  own  food. 

Mary  laughed.  "No,  but  what  of  that?  I  should 
probably  grieve  if  my  husband  did  this  or  that — but 
come  back  from  it — don't  let  things  carry  you  under! 
See,  feel,  touch,  suffer — but  react !  Smile  at  it  and  push 
on.  There  are  wonderful  things  in  the  world  for  the 
brave,  but  to  grow  old  and  sodden  and  sad — that  is  the 
worst  kind  of  failure."  Mary  walked  about  the  room 
as  she  talked,  and  all  the  while  her  eyes  were  on  Eve- 
lyn, who  was  bending  over  a  piece  of  sewing. 

They  were  home  from  the  theatre,  and  were  in  Mary's 
room,  which  adjoined  Evelyn's.  The  connecting  door 
was  ajar  so  that  Evelyn  could  hear  Bob  when  he  came 
in.  He  was  drinking  heavily  these  days,  and  Mary 

— 81— 


The  Least  Resistance 

i 

watched  the  anxious  lines  deepen  in  Evelyn's  face.  She 
noticed  the  growing  reticence  and  the  patient,  hopeless 
droop  of  the  mouth.  She  flamed  with  the  outrage  of 
the  situation,  and  her  consuming  desire  was  to  instil 
into  the  younger  woman  some  idea  of  her  rights  as  a 
wife  and  as  a  human  being,  and  in  these  talks  between 
them  she  struck  here  and  there,  seeking  a  responsive, 
resistant  chord  in  Evelyn. 

And  her  words  were  not  without  effect  on  Evelyn's 
suggestible  mind,  but  she  was  taking  it  in  slowly,  think- 
ing deeply,  changing  gradually  "Will  this  last  always?" 
to  "It  mustn't  last  always."  But  she  had  so  little  ca- 
pacity to  express  her  thoughts,  was  as  yet  so  unsure 
of  herself,  that  she  rarely  answered  by  word  or  look 
these  outbursts  from  her  friend.  The  only  sign  of  in- 
terest that  Mary  could  take  hold  of  was  a  constant  draw- 
ing her  out  on  the  subject  of  women,  their  right  to 
happiness,  to  work,  and  to  justice. 

"But  we  have  duties,"  Evelyn  said  without  looking  up 
from  her  work. 

"Yes,  but  our  first  duty  is  to  keep  up — not  to  go  un- 
der— then  you  fail  not  only  yourself,  but  mankind." 

"But  how  can  one  help  going  under?  What  is  there 
to  take  hold  of?"  Evelyn  asked  without  betraying  what 
a  vital  question  this  was  to  her. 

"If  it  were  some  general  or  rather  some  definite  thing 
that  would  save  us  all,  it  would  be  easy,  but  for  each 
soul  there  is  a  different  way — work,  religion,  love — but 
whatever  it  is  you  have  to  evolve  it  from  your  own 
depths — some  living,  steadying  principle  to  shape  your 
life  by.  I  am  not  talking  to  you  offhand,  Evelyn — I've 
known  the  creeping  paralysis — and  I've  fought  it  off.  I 
may  never  have  great  material  success,  but  my  life  isn't 
going  to  be  a  sickly  failure !  Managers  and  cheap  com- 
panies, and  our  hard  way  of  living,  shan't  keep  me 
from  thinking  and  feeling,  and  I  will  not  have  a  crush- 


The  Least  Resistance 

ing,  choking  relation  with  any  human  being  for  any  cause 
whatever.  Every  soul  has  an  inalienable  right  to  free- 
dom— a  fine  freedom,  not  without  sorrows  or  responsi- 
bilities, but  essentially  free,  for,  if  it  isn't,  you  are  just 
as  dead  as  though  you  were  six  feet  under  the  ground !" 

Evelyn  had  dropped  her  sewing  and  now  she  raised 
her  eyes  in  a  swift  question  to  Mary,  but  before  either 
could  speak  they  heard  Bob  enter  his  room,  and,  with 
a  hasty  good  night,  Evelyn  left  Mary,  closing  and  lock- 
ing the  door  between  the  two  rooms.  She  had  heard 
Bob's  hand  on  the  door  and  knew  his  condition. 

''Well/'  he  said  as  she  appeared,  "not  in  bed  yet?" 

"No,  I  had  some  work  to  finish  and  Mary  and  I " 

She  paused  as  she  caught  sight  of  his  new  suit  of 
clothes. 

"Oh!"  he  said  following  her  glance.  "Some  suit — 
pretty  good  looking  to  come  from  this  rube  town." 

"When  did  you  get  it?" 

"To-day — what's  the  matter?"  Bob  was  swaying  a 
bit,  but  he  managed  to  keep  his  voice  steady. 

"You  didn't  need  a  new  suit  on  this  trip — you  had 
several  old  ones  to  wear  out." 

"I'm  the  leading  man  of  this  company.  I  can't  go 
around  looking  like  a  bum." 

"I  think  you  might  have  paid  me  the  money  you  bor- 
rowed from  me  in  New  York  before  you  bought  any 
clothes,"  she  said  calmly. 

"There  you  are !  Gee,  you  are  a  fine  wife — you'd  have 
me  going  about  looking  like  a  rag-bag  so  you  could 
hoard  a  little  money !" 

"You  were  very  glad  a  short  time  ago  that  I  had 
hoarded." 

"Ah,  cut  it  out — we  have  months  and  months  to  save ; 
besides,  I'm  in  good  with  this  firm,  I  won't  have  to  look 
for  a  job  next  year." 


The  Least  Resistance 

"All  right,  Bob,  do  as  you  please,  but  hereafter  I'll 
collect  my  own  salary." 

"You'll  what?"  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves  by  this 
time  and  paused  in  the  act  of  unfastening  his  collar 
to  look  at  her. 

"I'll  collect  my  own  salary.  We've  been  out  five 
weeks,  all  the  money  has  been  paid  to  you — I've  had 
just  enough  to  live  on,  and  I  know  that  you  haven't 
saved  a  cent.  How  much  have  you  got  in  your  pocket 
now?" 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours?" 

"Well,  considering  that  I  am  working  hard  for  part 
of  the  money,  I  think  it  is  very  much  my  business. 
You  haven't  enough  to  get  out  of  the  hotel  in  the  morn- 
ing— have  you?" 

"Well,  I'll  get  it — you  can  borrow  it  from  Mary — 
we'll  pay  her  back  Tuesday." 

Evelyn  faced  him  without  a  word,  indignation  and 
contempt  flaming  in  her  eyes,  but  with  a  great  effort 
at  self-control  she  turned  away.  "I  shall  do  no  such 
thing,"  she  said  decisively. 

Without  further  word  she  undressed  and  went  to  bed. 
Bob  moved  about  muttering  sometimes  to  himself,  some-* 
times  aloud  that  she  was  selfish,  unaccommodating,  un- 
wifely — it  was  all  "a  damn  nuisance." 

"What's  this  about  splitting  salary?"  he  demanded, 
his  befuddled  brain  working  back  to  that  thought. 

"Just  what  I  said.  In  the  morning  I  shall  ask  Mr. 
Bolton  to  pay  me  my  share." 

"And  what  part  of  the  seventy-five  do  you  think  is 
your  share — all  of  it?"  he  asked  with  a  sneer. 

"Thirty  dollars,"  she  answered  calmly.  "That  leaves 
you  forty-five.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  save  money  out 
of  that." 

"If  you  are  going  to  start  anything  like  this,  you'll 
pay  your  own  expenses,"  he  threatened. 
-84- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"I  expect  to  do  that — you'll  never  be  troubled  with 
my  support,  I'll  always  look  after  that." 

"Oh,  will  you! — you're  so  high  and  mighty  all  of  a 
sudden — suppose  I  say  you  can't."  He  threw  one  shoe 
across  the  room. 

"Can't  what?"  she  demanded,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"Divide  up  the  salary." 

"Can't?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  can't.  What's  the  matter — don't  you  hear? 
Can't."  The  other  shoe  followed  its  mate.  "You  for- 
get I'm  your  husband." 

"Husband?  Yes,  I  would  forget!  Well,  husband  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it — I  work  and  I  am  entitled  to  my 
pay  and  Mr.  Bolton  will  see  that  I  get  it." 

"Oh,  shut  up  and  go  to  sleep !"  he  said  irritably,  not 
knowing  how  to  deal  with  this  new  Evelyn.  He  knew 
that  Bolton  would  side  with  his  wife,  for  on  several 
occasions  he  had  warned  Bob  that  his  habits  were 
against  the  interests  of  the  company. 

The  conversation  over,  Evelyn  returned  to  her  cor- 
ner, her  face  to  the  wall.  She  heard  Bob  move  about 
the  room,  throwing  his  clothes  here  and  there.  She 
heard  him  go  to  his  bag,  take  out  a  flask,  heard  him 
ring  for  ice  water,  the  knock  of  the  boy  at  the  door 
and  the  clatter  of  the  ice  as  it  fell  in  the  pitcher — all 
of  this  she  heard  as  things  far  away.  She  lay  on  the 
hard  bed  in  the  sordid  hotel  room  with  her  face  to 
the  ugly  wall-paper,  happier  than  she  had  been  in  a 
long  time — so  happy  that  in  the  morning  she  would  pay 
their  board  bill  out  of  her  slender  savings.  This  knowl- 
edge rose  from  the  fact  that  she  had  struck  her  first 
blow  for  freedom.  Mary  had  spoken  of  freedom  of 
the  soul,  but  questions  of  the  soul  troubled  her  little, 
and  it  was  a  less  exalted,  a  more  material  freedom  that 
she  desired. 

-85- 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

BOLTON,  the  manager  spoken  of  by  Evelyn,  was 
half  owner  of  the  company,  and  it  was  therefore 
quite  within  his  power  to  make  a  division  of  the  salary 
drawn  by  Bob  and  his  wife,  and  as  the  former  had 
suspected  he  was  more  than  ready  to  comply  with  Eve- 
lyn's wish. 

Thereafter  every  Tuesday  night  a  little  white  envelope 
containing  thirty  dollars  was  handed  her,  and  fortified 
by  this  some  of  the  anxiety  went  out  of  her  heart, 
and  she  found  herself  resisting  "the  creeping  paralysis" 
against  which  Mary  had  warned  her.  She  bore  with 
Bob  in  a  kindlier  spirit,  fulfilling  to  the  last  jot  her 
duties  to  him — the  chief  of  which  was  to  see  that  he 
made  the  trains  on  time  in  the  morning,  and  in  a  con- 
dition to  deceive  the  eyes  of  the  manager,  who  was 
growing  daily  more  intolerant  of  Bob  and  his  habits. 

Out  of  her  thirty  dollars  Evelyn  paid  her  own  ex- 
penses, which  grew  smaller  as  the  weeks  went  by,  and 
the  desire  to  save  money  gripped  her  harder.  The  more 
she  saved,  the  more  extravagant  Bob  became.  Several 
times  he  came  to  her  to  borrow,  but  he  encountered 
a  new  Evelyn,  one  who  would  not  be  wheedled  nor 
bullied  into  lending.  Each  refusal  on  her  part  was 
the  signal  for  violent  reproaches,  and  a  quarrel  which 
ended  in  Bob  disappearing  for  the  night  and  arriving  at 
the  train  in  the  morning  in  a  woefully  dilapidated  state. 

The  sight  of  him  sent  a  sharp  stab  of  pain  through 
Evelyn,  and  almost  shook  her  resolution  to  protect  her- 
self. He  seemed  so  weak,  so  helpless  against  his  weak- 
ness. But  from  long  experience  she  knew  how  helpless 
-36- 


The  Least  Resistance 

she,  too,  was  against  this  weakness.  In  times  past  she 
had  thrown  her  youth,  her  sweetness  and  unfaltering 
devotion  into  the  breach — to  no  avail.  And  now  with  his 
weakened  will,  and  coarsened  nature,  she  knew  that  the 
greatest  sacrifice  on  her  part  would  be  profitless  to 
him. 

With  the  more  removed  vision  of  these  days  she  saw 
a  new  phase  of  his  character,  or  saw  one  that  she  had 
long  sensed,  spring  into  clear  and  ugly  prominence.  He 
stared  openly  at  women  on  the  streets,  smirked  at 
waitresses,  flirted  with  girls  in  the  boxes,  and  was  al- 
ways the  first  man  on  the  stage  before  the  curtain  went 
up  to  look  through  the  peep-hole  to  spot  a  "winner." 

The  members  of  the  company  watched  with  interest, 
Mary  with  rising  indignation,  Bob's  behaviour  and  its 
effect  on  Evelyn.  As  far  as  her  observers  could  see, 
she  seemed  unaware  of  his  conduct;  in  reality  she  saw 
everything,  but  she  went  on  her  way,  calm  and  silent, 
save  for  long  impersonal  talks  with  Mary.  There  was 
never  a  word  of  complaint,  never  a  reproach  to  Bob, 
but  each  week  as  soon  as  salaries  were  paid  she  rushed 
to  the  post-office  to  put  the  larger  part  of  her  earnings 
into  a  money  order.  This  was  her  only  protest  against 
the  humiliation  of  her  present  life — this  and  a  deter- 
mined, dream-like  mood  that  wrapped  her  about. 

The  season  dragged  on,  "No  Guiding  Hand"  playing 
nearly  every  available  town  in  the  Middle  West.  The 
company  made  the  acquaintance  of  numberless  sordid, 
badly  managed  hotels;  dressed  in  bleak,  dirty  dressing- 
rooms;  played  on  draughty  stages,  and  were  on  inti- 
mate terms  with  all  of  the  old,  uncomfortable,  badly 
ventilated  railroad  coaches  in  that  section.  It  was  not 
unusual  for  them  to  leave  after  the  evening  perform- 
ance, ride  in  a  dimly  lighted  day  coach  crowded  with 
sleeping,  smelling  humanity  until  two  in  the  morning, 
wait  in  a  cold,  cheerless  station  for  a  five-o'clock  train, 

-87- 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  arrive  at  their  destination  shortly  before  noon  with 
a  matinee  and  evening  of  "No  Guiding  Hand"  before 
them. 

They  bore  these  hardships  bravely,  often  merrily,  for 
they  played  to  large  and  enthusiastic  audiences  and 
there  was  a  prospect  of  a  long  salary-paying  season.  It 
was  hard,  but  better  than  work-hunting  in  New  York. 

Bob  was  kept  in  a  good  humour  by  the  frequent  flat- 
tering notices  that  appeared  in  the  small  town  papers, 
and  more  especially  by  the  "mash  notes"  that  he  received 
from  his  admirers.  At  first  he  read  these  to  Evelyn, 
sometimes  in  a  friendly  spirit,  more  often  to  show  her 
how  other  women  regarded  him.  But  the  smile  with 
which  she  received  these  effusions  and  her  lack  of  com- 
ment, left  him  in  doubt  as  to  their  effect,  and  he  soon 
discontinued  the  practice.  At  the  same  time  he  was\ 
urged  on  to  overt  acts  that  would,  as  he  put  it,  get  a 
"rise"  out  of  her. 

With  the  coming  of  spring  they  invaded  Ohio  and  by 
the  middle  of  March  they  had  worked  east  to  the  small 
towns  in  southwestern  Pennsylvania — just  ahead  of 
them  was  a  week's  stay  in  Pittsburg. 

"Let's  make  it  a  gala  week,  Evelyn,"  Mary  Leighton 
said ;  "we  can  look  at  the  beautiful  spring  things  in  the 
shops." 

"But  we  can  only  look.  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  buy?" 
Evelyn  asked. 

"Yes,  but " 

"I  wonder  if  we  will  ever  be  able  to  buy?  It  must 
be  wonderful  to  go  in  and  get  all  of  the  beautiful  things 
you'd  like.  Do  you  think  we  will  ever  be  able  to  do  that  ?" 
she  asked. 

Mary  laughed.     "Of  course,  we'll  both  be  rich  and 

famous  and  happy — some  day !    But  I  think  I  won't  take 

you  to  the  shops,  they  make  you  long  for  the  flesh  pots. 

I  shall  take  you  out  to  the   Carnegie   Institute — we'll 

—88— 


The  Least  Resistance 

stand  before  Whistler's  "Sarasate"  and  feast  our  eyes, 
and  have  a  splendid  lesson  in  grace  and  deportment, 
and " 

"Oh,  Mary,  look  at  the  clock.  We  must  hurry,  it  is 
almost  time  for  half  hour  and  we  aren't  unpacked." 

Evelyn  left  her  friend's  room,  and  hurried  to  her  own 
to  get  her  hat  and  coat.  They  had  long  since  abandoned 
the  adjoining  room  plan,  for  Evelyn  wished  to  spare 
Mary  such  intimate  knowledge  of  Bob's  habits  as  she 
would  get  with  only  a  door  between  them.  The  very  one- 
sidedness  of  their  frequent  quarrels  would  grieve  Mary, 
who  watched  anxiously  the  Evelyn  that  was  developing 
under  the  pressure  of  her  present  life. 

The  two  girls  were  preceded  to  the  theatre  by  Bob, 
who  wanted  a  bracer  before  the  matinee.  Now  as  they 
hurried  along  Mary  remarked  that  it  was  the  first  spring- 
like day  they  had  had. 

"Look  at  the  hats  and  summer  dresses  in  the  win- 
dows," Evelyn  said. 

"Yes,  and  smell  the  air — how  fresh  it  is,  and  the  faces 
of  the  people — they  are  all  glad  winter  is  over.  From 
now  on  our  travelling  won't  be  so  hard,"  Mary  said. 

"How  long  do  you  think  the  season  will  last,  Mary  ?" 

"Usually  until  the  middle  of  June — that  is,  they  used 
to,  but  the  moving  pictures  have  almost  driven  the  melo- 
dramas out  of  business.  Perhaps  it  is  as  well,  they  cer- 
tainly have  never  been  good  for  anything  except  to  give 
a  lot  of  needy  actors  work." 

"I  am  glad  they  lasted  long  enough  to  give  us  this 
season,"  Evelyn  said;  then  added  impulsively,  "It  has 
been  so  wonderful  to  know  you — I  wish  I  could  some 
time  give  you  as  much  as  you  have  me." 

For  answer  Mary  gave  her  arm  an  affectionate 
squeeze,  and  they  hurried  down  the  alley  that  led  to  the 
stage  door. 

"Half  hour,  ladies,"  the  stage  manager  called  to 

—89— 


The  Least  Resistance 

them  as  they  crossed  the  stage  to  their  dressing  rooms. 
There  was  a  chill  in  the  unheated  theatre,  and  the  smell 
of  escaping  gas;  the  stage  hands  hurried  here  and  there 
sliding  the  set  into  place,  and  lashing  it  together;  the 
property  man  in  his  Chinese  make-up  ran  about  placing 
the  furniture  and  "props";  the  stage  manager  with  his 
coat  off  stood  with  his  back  to  the  curtain  giving  direc- 
tions. 

"Some  house !"  he  called  after  the  girls. 

"That's  good,"  Mary  answered,  "they  will  keep  us 
out  all  summer  if  this  business  keeps  up." 

"Can't  stay  out  too  long  for  me,  I  need  the  money !"  he 
replied. 

Mary  turned  into  her  dressing  room  which  was  on  the 
stage  level,  and  Evelyn  descended  to  the  basement  where 
the  less  important  people  were  assigned. 

The  basement,  half  filled  by  long  discarded  stage  furni- 
ture, and  lighted  by  a  few  sickly  gas  jets,  was  damp  and 
ill  smelling.  In  one  corner  the  members  of  the  orchestra 
were  scraping  their  instruments  in  the  process  of  tuning 
up  for  the  overture.  From  the  various  cell-like  dressing 
rooms  came  scraps  of  talks  and  an  occasional  burst  of 
song. 

Evelyn  unpacked  quickly,  put  on  her  make-up  and  cos- 
tume and  had  time  to  pay  a  visit  to  Minnie  Carter  before 
the  overture  was  called. 

They  played  the  matinee  to  a  large  and  appreciative 
audience.  Every  entrance  and  exit  of  Mary  as  the 
injured  heroine  was  the  signal  for  applause,  but  even  this 
was  eclipsed  by  the  favour  lavished  on  Bob.  It  was  his 
afternoon !  As  the  play  wore  on,  the  audience,  composed 
largely  of  women  and  children,  hung  on  his  every  word, 
and  after  his  fight  the  storm  of  applause  was  so  insistent 
that  he  was  forced  to  take  a  "scene  call." 

After  the  first  act  Evelyn  was  in  his  dressing  room  for 
a  moment,  but  he  was  oblivious  of  her  presence.  His 


The  Least  Resistance 

eyes  were  bright,  his  mouth  had  lost  its  petulance  in  a 
gracious  smile,  he  was  nervous,  tense — the  adulation  of 
the  crowd  was  in  his  brain  like  wine. 

As  the  next  act  opened  Evelyn  moved  down  to  the 
front  wing  to  watch  him  act  under  the  inspiration  of  the 
occasion.  She  observed  him  coldly,  critically,  trying  to 
get  a  true  line  on  his  possibilities. 

He  looked  well  under  his  heavy  make-up,  he  played 
with  fire  and  force,  and  a  certain  elaborate  seriousness 
that  passed  for  nobility  and  refinement.  Evelyn's  stand- 
ards of  art  were  not  high,  she  had  seen  little  of  first  class 
acting,  but  she  instinctively  rebelled  against  the  blatant 
falseness  of  Bob's  acting  and  personality. 

As  she  watched  him  she  noticed  that  he  was  constantly 
working  towards  the  left  of  the  stage,  that  his  eyes 
strayed  in  that  direction  even  when  he  was  talking  to 
some  one  right  stage.  She  moved  a  little  forward  to  see 
what  attracted  him.  A  cynical  smile  played  about  her 
lips  as  she  beheld  the  occupant  of  the  left  stage  box. 

A  large,  handsome  blonde  woman,  in  a  blue  velvet 
gown  and  a  hat  loaded  down  with  blue  plumes  was  lean- 
ing on  the  railing  close  to  the  stage.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  in  a  position  of  arrested  applause,  and  from  one 
wrist  hung  a  large  gold  bag,  while  a  ring  about  her  little 
finger  supported  a  chain  from  which  dangled  numerous 
gold  articles — a  coin  purse,  pencil,  vanity  box,  lip  rouge 
case  and  a  mirror.  The  least  movement  on  her  part  was 
accompanied  by  a  pleasant,  opulent  rattle  of  the  gold 
toys. 

Evelyn  watching  saw  her  large  blue  eyes  lift  in  an 
answering  look  to  Bob,  saw  the  slow,  scarcely  percepti- 
ble nod  with  which  the  handsome  overdressed  blonde 
answered  the  question  in  his  eyes.  She  watched  this 
drama  of  attraction  play  itself  out  with  as  much  detach- 
ment as  though  it  in  no  way  concerned  her.  Even  when 
the  woman  in  the  box  took  from  her  bag  a  card  and  wrote 

—91— 


The  Least  Resistance 

on  it  with  a  gold  pencil  she  felt  not  a  flutter  of  jealousy 
and  the  enigmatical  smile  never  left  her  mouth.  At  that 
moment  a  stage  hand  came  up  by  her  and  peered  out  at 
the  audience. 

"Some  swell  dame,"  he  said,  "the  one  wid  the  feathers 
on  her  lid." 

"Yes,"  Evelyn  answered,  "who  is  she?" 

"The  widder  of  a  guy  that  used  to  keep  the  saloon  on 
the  corner.  She's  always  in  that  box — very  fond  of  the 
drama!"  he  said  in  his  wise  way  and  passed  on. 

Evelyn  moved  up  stage  to  make  her  entrance,  and  as 
she  waited  for  her  cue,  she  heard  the  same  stage  hand 
say  to  some  one  behind  the  drop: 

"Blue  Bess  is  on  the  job — copped  another  actor." 

"The  poor  simp,"  the  other  answered ;  "what  she  sees 
in  them  guys — I  hear  she  loads  them  up  with  cham- 
pagne- 
Evelyn's  cue  came,  she  pulled  herself  up  sharply  and 
went  on  as  the  tripping,  gurgling  ingenue. 

The  final  curtain  rang  down,  and  she  hurried  to  her 
dressing  room,  aware  that  the  members  of  the  company 
were  looking  at  her  with  kindly,  questioning  eyes.  They 
had  all  seen  Bob's  flirtation,  and  they  resented  it  for  her. 

While  she  was  undressing,  Minnie  Carter  came  in  to 
chat  with  her.  She  knew  it  was  sympathy  that  brought 
Minnie  in  though  she  talked  of  everything  but  what  was 
on  her  mind. 

Minnie  was  the  wife  of  Joe  Carter  who  played  the 
heavy.  She  had  no  part  in  the  play,  but  travelled  with 
her  husband,  and  for  her  transportation  performed  the 
duties  of  general  understudy  to  the  women  of  the  com- 
pany. She  was  a  simple  soul,  happy  in  her  marriage,  and 
full  of  thrifty  housewifely  ways  which  no  amount  of 
shifting  and  changing  could  destroy.  She  and  Joe  lived 
and  saved  money  on  their  small  salary,  and  dreamed  of 


The  Least  Resistance 

the  summer  before  them  that  would  be  spent  with  the 
old  folks  on  the  farm  in  Connecticut. 

She  came  in  to  see  Evelyn,  she  said,  to  tell  her  about  a 
restaurant  where  one  could  get  "an  elegant  supper  for 
a  quarter." 

"I  don't  see  how  they  do  it,"  she  went  on,  "soup, 
roast  beef,  two  vegetables  and  pie,  and  it  is  all  good!" 

"That  is  cheap,"  Evelyn  assented. 

"We  are  going — you  and  Mary  come  along  if  you  want 
to — and  Bob  too,  of  course,"  she  added  hastily. 

"Thanks,  Minnie,  but  we  are  living  American  plan. 
Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

"No,  I  guess  I'll  run  along,  Joe  is  out  before  I  know 
it."  She  bent  over  Evelyn  who  was  seated  before  the 
make-up  table,  and  gave  her  a  quick  kiss  on  the  cheek. 
"See  you  later — you've  got  such  pretty  hair,  Evelyn," 
and  with  a  final  sympathetic  pat  she  flounced  out  of  the 
room  leaving  Evelyn  facing  her  own  image  in  the 
mirror. 

Of  old,  the  gentleness  of  Minnie  would  have  touched 
her  almost  to  tears,  but  now  steady,  tearless  eyes  looked 
back  at  her  from  the  glass,  and  a  mouth  without  a  quiver 
in  its  red  line  was  reflected. 

She  thrust  her  hand  mechanically  into  the  cold  cream 
jar,  smeared  her  face  with  it,  wiped  it  off  with  cheese- 
cloth, without  taking  her  eyes  away  from  the  reflection 
in  the  mirror — there  was  something  about  the  sternness 
of  the  face  that  fascinated  her. 

As  she  was  putting  on  her  street  clothes  Mary  entered, 
ready  to  go  home. 

"Not  dressed  yet  ?"  she  asked. 

"In  just  a  second,"  she  answered,  and  finished  her 
dressing  in  silence,  oblivious  of  Mary's  uneasy  glances. 
As  she  took  up  her  purse  and  turned  off  the  lights 
Mary  asked  if  they  were  to  wait  for  Bob. 

"Suppose  he  has  gone  some  time  ago." 

•—93— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"He  is  never  out  before  we  are — shall  I  call  him?" 

"No,  let's  go  on,"  Evelyn  answered. 

They  crossed  the  dimly  lighted  stage  where  the  men 
were  taking  down  the  last  act  set  to  make  ready  for  the 
evening  performance,  opened  the  narrow  stage  door  and 
let  themselves  out  into  the  dark,  ill-smelling  alley.  As 
Mary  appeared  a  chorus  of  voices  cried,  "There  she  is — 
there  she  is!" 

It  was  a  group  of  young  girls  gathered  to  pay  their 
respects  to  the  leading  lady.  She  smiled  and  bowed,  and 
taking  Evelyn's  arm  hurried  up  the  alley  to  the  street. 

"We've  lots  of  time,  suppose  we  take  a  walk  before 
dinner,"  Mary  suggested. 

"Why " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  without  giving  Evelyn  a  chance  to 
protest,  "there  is  a  fine  long  street  here  with  beautiful 
homes,  and  at  the  end  you  get  right  into  the  country. 
Let's  go  where  human  beings  live  and  forget  that  we  are 
just  tramps." 

Evelyn  smiled,  and  falling  in  with  Mary's  gait  walked 
on.  Suddenly  Mary  called  her  attention  sharply  to  a 
hat  in  a  shop  window,  but  it  was  too  late,  for  Evelyn 
had  already  seen  Bob  and  the  handsome  overdressed 
blonde  across  the  street.  They  were  about  to  step  into 
a  large  touring  car  that  waited  at  the  curb.  For  a  moment 
Evelyn  paused,  then  turned,  and  commented  on  the  hat 
in  the  shop  window. 

Ten  minutes  before  the  curtain  was  ready  to  go  up  for 
the  evening  performance,  Bob  rushed  into  the  theatre, 
dashed  past  the  anxious  stage  manager  into  his  dress- 
ing room,  calling  out  as  he  slammed  the  door,  "I'll  be 
ready  on  time." 

As  he  was  tearing  off  his  clothes  there  was  a  knock 
at  his  door  and  in  answer  to  his  "come  in,"  Bolton,  the 
business  manager,  appeared. 
—94— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"We'll  not  stand  for  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  said,  look- 
ing sternly  at  Bob.  "They  sent  for  me  to  the  front  of 
the  house — everybody's  wild — this  is  no  way  to  attend  to 
business !  That  house  out  there  is  packed,  and  you 
staying  out  like  a  loafer!" 

"You  might  have  known  I'd  be  here,"  Bob  protested. 
"I'm  a  reliable  man,  never  failed  anybody  yet."  A  fine 
dinner  with  the  unusual  accompaniment  of  champagne 
had  given  Bob  courage  to  make  any  statement. 

"No  man  is  reliable  when  he  is  drunk,"  Bolton  said 
cuttingly. 

"Drunk — I  ?"  Bob  inquired  defiantly. 

"Ah,  cut  it  and  get  ready,  and  don't  let  it  happen  again. 
The  next  time  you  go  back  to  New  York." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Bob  threw  off  his  street  clothes, 
made  up  his  face  and  slipped  on  his  stage  apparel.  Bol- 
ton's  reprimand  had  made  no  impression  on  him,  for  he 
whistled  as  he  dressed,  smiled  at  himself  in  the  mirror, 
and  emerged  from  his  room  before  the  overture  was  half 
over  in  the  character  of  Jim  Montague.  No  member  of 
the  company  greeted  him,  the  stage  carpenter  even  emit- 
ted a  contemptuous  grunt  as  he  passed.  They  all  were 
too  sympathetic  with  Evelyn  to  countenance  him  just 
now,  but  Bob  scarcely  noticed  their  attitude;  if  he  did 
he  put  it  down  to  some  lurking  jealousy  of  his  popularity. 

The  play  ran  through  smoothly;  the  large  audience 
picking  up  every  point  and  laughing  at  exactly  the  right 
time.  Bob  played  with  unusual  fire,  urged  on  by  the 
blue  eyes  which  again  beamed  on  him  from  the  left  stage 
box. 

Bob  did  not  speak  to  his  wife  during  the  evening,  nor 
did  she  approach  him ;  her  one  desire  was  to  keep  away 
from  him.  She  dreaded  the  one  little  scene  they  had 
together  in  the  last  act,  for  then  she  must  look  in  his 
eyes,  take  his  hand,  and  speak  to  him  in  a  sweet,  cordial 
ingenue  way,  and  he  replied  in  speeches  that  breathed 

—95— 


The  Least  Resistance 

kindness  and  manhood.  The  scene  had  always  seemed 
to  her  unnatural,  and  now  it  so  offended  her  sense  of 
fitness  that  she  had  to  brace  herself  to  go  on — neither 
by  training  nor  temperament  was  she  adapted  to  over- 
laying her  own  emotions  with  those  of  a  character's. 

However,  she  entered  bravely,  and  as  the  scene  pro- 
gressed she  felt  that  it  was  passing  off  very  well,  when 
suddenly  Bob's  eyes  shifted  from  her  to  the  box.  She 
followed  them  and  caught  the  smile  that  passed  between 
him  and  the  blonde  woman.  She  had  the  next  speech,  but 
one  of  those  sudden  flashes  of  feeling  of  which  she  was 
capable  cut  through  her  self-control,  and  sent  a  choke  to 
her  throat,  and  blinding  tears  to  her  eyes.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  could  not  speak,  and  Bob,  thinking  her  mem- 
ory had  failed,  threw  her  a  line.  She  picked  it  up  and 
went  on  with  the  scene. 

Afterwards  she  could  not  remember  how  she  got 
through  it,  and  off  the  stage  to  her  dressing-room.  She 
only  knew  that  she  was  filled  with  a  wild  pain  and  an 
implacable  anger.  She  shut  herself  in  the  dingy  ill- 
lighted  room ;  she  caught  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  gripped 
it  hard ;  the  breath  came  in  little  short  gasps ;  her  bosom 
rose  and  fell  as  though  it  were  pushing  up  the  sobs. 
The  shame,  the  torture  of  her  life  she  had  never  seen 
before  so  clearly — now  with  one  backward  glance  she 
saw  the  brutality  that  had  killed  her  youth,  the  long  years 
of  hard  work  and  poverty,  rendered  almost  unbearable 
by  his  improvidence  and  indifference.  Like  a  swift 
searchlight,  her  mind  played  over  last  summer — that  ter- 
rible summer  in  New  York,  the  night  she  thought  that 
he  was  dying,  the  night  she  found  the  blonde  hair  on 
his  coat — the  hot  night  that  young  Baker  killed  him- 
self, her  husband's  terror,  and  his  drunken  sleep  after- 
wards, while  she  listened  to  the  music  across  the  way 
and  thought  of  her  possible  end — an  end  like  Baker's. 

All  that,  and  now  this  crowning  shame!  She  cov- 
— 96 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

ered  her  face  with  her  shaking  hands,  and  through  the 
clenched  teeth,  through  the  hard-pressed  hands,  the  cry 
of  her  soul  forced  its  way  out:  "Oh,  God!  not  much 
longer — not  much " 

She  heard  her  name  called,  and  pulling  herself  together 
went  out  to  take  up  her  cue.  Her  lips  trembled  so 
that  she  could  scarcely  speak  her  lines,  but  as  the  act 
went  on  she  grew  calmer,  and  a  heavy,  sullen  mood  set- 
tled over  her  that  crushed  out  the  last  vestige  of  hysteria. 

The  play  over,  she  dressed,  and  packed  her  trunk.  She 
and  Mary  walked  to  the  hotel  in  silence.  They  got  their 
keys  from  the  office,  left  six-o'clock  calls,  and  mounted 
the  stairs. 

"Come  in,  Evelyn,"  Mary  said  when  they  reached  her 
door,  "or  do  you  want  to  undress  first  ?" 

"I  think  I'll  go  right  to  bed — we  have  such  an  early 
jump." 

"Come  in,  let  me  make  you  a  hot  malted  milk,  it'll  help 
you  to  sleep,"  Mary  insisted. 

"Thank  you,  not  to-night — I'll  sleep.  Good  night." 
Her  mood  would  not  yield  even  to  Mary. 

"Evelyn  dear,"  Mary  said,  laying  a  detaining  hand  on 
her  arm,  but  a  shudder  passed  over  Evelyn,  and  Mary 
withdrew  her  hand.  "Come  to  me  if  you  want  anything," 
she  said  gently. 

Evelyn  nodded  and  walked  down  the  hall  to  her  room. 
She  unlocked  the  door  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
into  the  room.  The  gas  burned  low ;  the  room  was  close 
and  hot — a  maid,  fearing  rain,  had  been  in  and  shut  the 
windows ;  it  gave  off  a  musty,  sordid  smell  that  Evelyn 
had  come  to  know  so  well  on  this  tour. 

She  turned  up  the  gas,  opened  the  windows,  and  moved 
about,  putting  things  to  rights,  all  the  while  listening 
for  the  sound  of  Bob's  hand  on  the  doorknob.  She  knew 
there  was  no  chance  of  his  coming  for  hours,  but  her  wish 
to  have  him  come  was  so  intense  that  she  felt  it  must 

—97— 


The  Least  Resistance 

somehow  draw  him.  She  wanted  him  to  come,  wanted 
to  give  vent  to  the  rage  that  was  smouldering  in  her  heart 
— one  word,  even  the  sight  of  him,  would  fan  it  into 
a  great  flame. 

But  the  night  wore  on  without  the  coming  of  Bob. 
At  one  o'clock  she  had  recovered  her  poise  enough  to 
get  ready  for  bed.  She  made  her  preparations  slowly, 
turned  out  the  light,  crept  into  bed,  huddling  close  to  the 
wall.  Lying  there,  wide-eyed,  sleep-deserted,  in  the  dark, 
she  waited. 

The  town  clock  struck  two,  three,  and  soon  after  she 
heard  the  door  open,  heard  Bob  stumble  against  a  chair, 
and  the  favourite  oath  that  followed.  He  struck  a  match 
and  the  gas  flared  up,  blinding  her  with  its  sudden  light. 
She  kept  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  arm.  After  a  pause  Bob  spoke. 

"Any  ice  water?"  he  asked  thickly. 

"No." 

"What  time  does  train  go  in  the  morning?" 

"Seven." 

"Shall  I  set  the  clock?"  He  picked  it  up  and  fum- 
bled clumsily  with  it. 

"I  set  it,"  Evelyn  said  from  her  corner. 

For  some  time  after  this  there  was  silence  in  the  room, 
broken  only  by  the  laboured  breathing  of  Bob  as  he  un- 
dressed slowly.  In  her  corner  Evelyn  fought  down  her 
desire  to  rise  and  denounce  him — the  old  habit  of  self- 
control  was  standing  her  in  good  stead,  and  the  night 
might  have  been  passed  in  outward  peace  had  not  Bob's 
necessities  urged  him  on  to  further  talk. 

"Did  you  pay  the  bill?"  He  came  over  and  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"No,"  in  a  hard  voice. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to — it's  the  end  of  the  week.    I'm 
broke — I'll  pay  you  back  to-morrow." 
-98- 


The  Least  Resistance 

Evelyn  sat  straight  up  in  bed,  and  looked  at  him.  "Pay 
your  bill — pay  your  bill?" 

"That's  what  I  said,"  he  snarled. 

"You  infamous,  low  beast — you  ask  me  for  money 
after  to-day?" 

"Well,  I  can't  get  out  of  here,  if  you  don't — leave  me 
here,  the  show  can't  go  on." 

"You  get  it  from  Mr.  Bolton,"  she  advised. 

"Ah,  won't  get  anything  from  him — he's  a — you  give 
me  the  money." 

"As  long  as  you  live,  you'll  never  get  another  cent  of 
my  money — remember  that." 

"Is  that  so — well,  I  will  too,  you're  my  wife — I've  got 
a  right " 

He  took  up  her  purse  from  the  dresser  and  was  about 
to  open  it,  but  with  one  leap  she  was  by  him  and  had 
snatched  the  purse  from  his  hands,  glaring  at  him  with 
flaming,  indignant  eyes. 

"Don't  you  dare — why  don't  you  borrow  from  the 
saloonkeeper's  widow  ?" 

"Spying — eh  ?"    He  rocked  unsteadily  before  her. 

"Spying — everybody  in  the  theatre  saw,  and  I  saw 
you  in  the  car  after  the  matinee — she  was  there  to-night." 

"You're  jealous — well,  if  you  want  to  hold  a  man " 

"Jealous  of  you  ?"  she  asked  with  a  scorn  that  cut 
through  his  drunken  stupor.  "Jealous  of  you?  I  wish 
she  had  you — but  she  wouldn't  take  you  as  a  gift — she 
is  in  that  box  at  every  matinee — she  picks  up  all  of  the 
leading  men." 

"That's  a  lie!" 

"Oh,  no,  it  isn't — it's  the  stage  hands'  best  joke,  but 
your  conceit,  your  vanity  made  you  think  that  your  strut- 
ting, your  frowning,  your  bellowing  made  a  hit — you 
poor  fool!" 

"Damn  you!"  he  cried,  and  swung  his  right  hand, 
hitting  her  just  above  the  left  eye. 


The  Least  Resistance- 

Evelyn  staggered  under  the  blow  and  caught  the  end 
of  the  bed  for  support.  She  swayed  there  for  a  moment, 
then  raised  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  when  she  brought 
it  down  there  was  blood  on  it — the  ring  on  his  finger  had 
broken  the  skin. 

She  went  to  the  washstand  and  wiped  the  blood  away. 
It  flowed  a  little,  then  stopped.  She  could  feel  the  swell- 
ing rising  rapidly ;  there  was  a  heaviness  in  her  head  and 
an  occasional  sharp,  shooting  pain. 

Bob  had  not  taken  his  eyes  off  of  her  since  the  blow, 
but  she  was  apparently  unconscious  of  his  gaze.  Had 
she  made  some  outcry,  uttered  some  reproach,  he  would 
have  begged  her  forgiveness,  been  full  of  contrition — it 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  struck  her,  and  he  was 
frightened — until  this  moment  he  had  never  thought  of 
himself  as  a  bad  husband.  But  her  silence  gave  him  no 
chance  for  an  emotional  reconciliation. 

When  the  blood  had  ceased  to  flow,  Evelyn  began  to 
dress.  This  done,  her  few  possessions  were  thrust  into 
her  bag;  next  she  took  five  dollars  from  her  purse  and  laid 
it  on  the  table.  Then,  without  a  word,  she  opened  the 
door  and  passed  out  into  the  dark  hall. 

All  her  anger  was  gone ;  she  felt  almost  kindly  towards 
him.  The  blow  that  cut  her  forehead  and  sent  sharp 
pains  through  her  head  had,  in  a  twinkling,  crystallised 
the  vague  hopes  and  desires  of  the  past  months.  She  no 
longer  had  a  doubt  nor  a  hesitation — the  blow  had  set 
her  free! 

She  stole  down  the  creaking  stairs  to  the  office  below. 
Night  was  still  over  the  world,  and  a  sickly  gas  jet  burn- 
ing over  the  desk  illumined  the  dirty,  sordid  office.  In  a 
chair  the  night  porter  slept  and  snored — it  was  the  only 
sound  that  broke  the  deep  stillness.  Evelyn  moved  cau- 
tiously to  the  desk  and  wrote  two  notes — one  to  the 
manager  which  read,  "My  dear  Mr.  Bolton — I  am  sorry 
to  leave  the  company  in  this  way,  but  I  can't  stay  any 
— 100 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

longer.  I  would  not  go,  however,  now,  if  Minnie  Carter 
were  not  up  in  my  part.  She  may  have  my  clothes,  so 
you  won't  be  inconvenienced.  Please  forgive  me  and 
accept  my  thanks  for  your  unfailing  kindness  to  me." 

The  next  was  to  Mary  and  even  here  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  an  explanation.  "Good-bye,  dear,"  she 
wrote,  "I  can't  stay  any  longer — perhaps  you  understand. 
Minnie  is  up  in  my  part  and  I  want  her  to  have  my 
clothes.  Will  you  take  them  out  of  my  trunk  and  then 
send  trunk  on  to  address  below?  Don't  give  address  to 
any  one.  I'll  see  you  again;  in  the  meantime  you  have 
my  wishes  for  success  and  happiness,  but  I  am  afraid  you 
will  have  to  get  out  of  this  business  to  find  the  last." 
In  this  letter  she  sealed  the  trunk  key. 

Her  letters  finished,  she  turned  to  the  window,  and 
saw  in  the  east  the  lifting  of  night — a  pale  grey  marked 
the  approach  of  day;  a  milk  wagon  rattled  past,  fol- 
lowed by  the  clang  of  an  early  trolley  car.  Six  feet  from 
her  the  porter  slept  in  his  chair,  his  snores  breaking  the 
stillness  of  the  office  gave  her  a  bit  of  comfort — her 
isolation  seemed  less  complete. 

From  a  time-table  hanging  over  the  desk  she  learned 
that  the  interurban  connecting  with  Pittsburg  would  pass 
in  fifteen  minutes. 

She  consulted  the  register,  ran  cautiously  upstairs, 
slipped  the  note  for  Bolton  under  his  door  and  disposed 
of  Mary's  in  the  same  way. 

When  she  reached  the  office  again  she  snatched  up 
her  bag,  tiptoed  across  the  floor,  opened  the  door,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  gazing  about  at  a  world  strange  and 
weird  in  the  chill,  pale  dawn. 

The  cool  morning  air  struck  her  hot  forehead  and 
revived  her — she  drew  herself  up  and  drank  it  in  grate- 
fully. 

A  long  green  car  rounded  the  corner ;  she  signalled  it, 
and  stepped  aboard.  She  sat  by  an  open  window  and 

— 101 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

watched  the  sun  come  up  and  gild  the  countryside.  Her 
mind  was  clear,  her  heart  untroubled.  She  did  not  think 
of  the  past,  nor  did  her  thoughts  wander  to  the  future; 
she  was  drinking  deep  of  the  peace  that  had  come  with 
the  new  freedom. 


— 102 — 


CHAPTER  NINE 

TWENTY-FOUR  hours  after  her  flight  from  "No 
Guiding  Hand,"  Evelyn  was  in  New  York.  With 
that  directness  which  characterised  her  actions,  once  she 
felt  the  need  of  action,  she  had  come  straight  back  to  the 
heart  of  things  theatrical. 

She  established  herself  in  a  hall  bedroom  on  the  top 
floor  of  a  rooming  house,  for  which  she  had  to  pay  three 
dollars  a  week.  She  cooked  breakfasts  on  an  alcohol 
stove,  heated  a  can  of  soup  for  lunch,  and  dined  in  the 
cheap  restaurants  of  the  neighbourhood.  It  was  a  cheer- 
less, lonely  life,  but  it  was  free  from  the  demands  of  a 
drunken,  brutal  husband,  and  for  this  she  was  grateful. 

The  swelling  over  her  eye  had  gone  down  but  there 
was  an  ugly  blue  bruise  that  kept  her  away  from  man- 
agers and  agents  for  the  first  few  days.  She  treated  it 
with  all  of  the  simple  remedies  that  she  had  ever  heard 
of,  and  by  the  time  her  trunk  arrived  and  she  had  her 
clothes  out  and  pressed,  there  was  only  a  yellow  stain, 
easily  concealed  by  a  coat  of  powder. 

The  first  days  that  she  ventured  out  to  look  for  an 
engagement  she  was  desperately  shy — often  she  knocked 
at  a  door,  only  to  run  away  before  it  could  be  opened. 
But  as  time  went  on  she  fell  into  the  rhythm  of  job 
hunting,  and  her  courage  grew  until  she  could  put  the 
stock  question,  "Anything  doing  to-day  ?"  with  the  assur- 
ance of  an  old  campaigner. 

She  started  on  her  rounds  early  in  the  morning,  and  it 
was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  her  activities  ceased.  By 
this  persistence  the  agents  soon  came  to  know  her,  and 
she  was  sent  oftener  as  the  days  went  on  to  interview 

—103— 


The  Least  Resistance 

managers  who  were  looking  for  ingenues.  But  always 
she  was  too  tall  or  too  young  or  not  young  enough,  or 
too  fair  or  not  blonde  enough — she  always  fell  just  short 
of  what  was  wanted,  and  the  phrase  that  covered  the 
objection  of  each  and  every  manager  was,  "You  are  not 
the  type !" 

After  she  had  heard  this  a  number  of  times,  she  took 
to  studying  her  face  in  the  glass,  wondering  why  she 
wasn't  a  "type"  and  if  she  wasn't  a  "type"  what  was  she? 
She  had  no  one  to  tell  her  that  she  was  so  pronounced  a 
type  that  until  a  part  called  for  exactly  her  peculiar  ap- 
pearance there  was  small  chance  of  her  getting  work. 

The  wistful,  patient,  questioning  eyes,  the  delicate  nose, 
the  mouth  with  its  unconscious,  sad  smile,  the  muted 
music  of  her  personality  were  lost  on  the  men  with  whom 
she  came  in  contact.  In  competition  with  the  girls  of 
colour  and  life  and  vitality  who  formed  the  ranks  of  the 
profession  she  stood  little  chance.  There  were  managers, 
inaccessible  to  a  girl  in  her  position,  who  would  have 
recognised  in  her  the  quality  that,  by  its  very  lack  of 
theatricalism,  had  enormous  commercial  and  artistic  value 
in  the  theatre.  But  Evelyn's  operations  were  confined  to 
the  smaller  and  less  astute  managers  and  she  was  having 
an  uphill  time  of  it. 

As  she  studied  her  face  in  the  mirror,  and  wondered 
what  type  she  was,  there  suddenly  flashed  across  her 
memory  Brandon's  words  to  her  last  summer  when  he 
had  offered  her  a  chance. 

"I  like  your  type,"  he  had  said. 

So  there  was  hope  for  her.  He  was  one  of  the  big 
managers,  and  he  had  told  her  to  come  back  when  she 
was  divorced.  She  wasn't  that,  but  she  was  free,  and 
she  would  see  him  to-morrow. 

The  night  this  resolution  was  made  a  letter  came  from 
Mary  full  of  affection  and  encouragement.  Evelyn  drank 
in  every  word  of  it  thirstily.  Her  life  had  been  so  devoid 
— 104 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

of  love  and  sympathy  that  she  had  ceased  to  expect  it, 
but  this  letter  showed  her  how  warming  to  the  heart  and 
strengthening  to  the  soul  was  the  interest  of  another 
human  being.  She  put  the  letter  under  her  pillow,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  a  long  space  she  prayed  before  sleep 
closed  her  eyes. 

Before  her  visit  to  Brandon's  office,  Evelyn  spent  seven 
precious  dollars  for  a  hat ;  the  winter  one  which  she  had 
been  wearing  was  last  year's  made  over,  and  even  her 
ingenuity  could  not  make  it  modish  or  becoming.  An- 
other dollar  went  for  a  pair  of  gloves.  She  thought 
deeply  over  this  expenditure,  for  she  had  to  be  careful 
of  every  penny  if  her  money  was  to  last  through  the 
summer.  But  the  hope  that  Brandon  would  do  some- 
thing for  her  was  strong  in  her,  and  she  made  the  outlay 
cheerfully. 

By  ten  the  next  morning  she  was  dressed,  and  a  little 
sigh  of  satisfaction  escaped  her  as  she  surveyed  the 
effect  of  the  new  hat.  It  was  inexpensive,  but  chosen 
with  such  an  eye  to  the  becoming  that  at  double  the  price 
it  could  not  have  been  more  effective. 

She  thought  how  wonderful  it  must  be  to  have  soft, 
silky  clothes,  and  soft,  drooping  hats,  and  as  many  white 
gloves  as  you  wanted,  and  to  give  forth  always  a  lovely, 
faint,  expensive  fragrance.  These  thoughts  made  her 
turn  away  from  the  sight  of  her  seven-dollar  hat  and 
sigh. 

She  passed  and  repassed  the  theatre  that  housed  Bran- 
don's office  several  times  before  she  had  sufficient  courage 
to  go  in.  Suppose  he  wouldn't  remember  her — how  could 
he  with  so  many  people  coming  to  see  him,  or,  if  he 
should  remember  her,  would  he  ask  with  a  quizzical 
smile  on  his  face  if  she  were  divorced  so  soon  ?  At  length 
her  courage  returned  and  she  rushed  up  the  stairs  that 
led  to  the  office. 

She  found  the  waiting  room,  that  had  been  crowded 

—105— 


The  Least  Resistance 

last  summer,  deserted  now  save  for  the  telephone  opera- 
tor who,  between  calls,  was  too  absorbed  in  the  latest 
Chambers'  novel  to  give  her  attention  to  any  mere  actress 
who  might  stray  in. 

Evelyn  waited  patiently  for  the  girl  to  look  her  way, 
but  as  this  possibility  grew  more  remote  each  moment 
she  stepped  up  to  the  desk  and  asked  if  Mr.  Brandon 
was  in. 

"He  sailed  yesterday — won't  be  back  till  August,"  was 
the  laconic  reply,  made  without  lifting  her  eyes  to  her 
questioner.  There  was  a  buzz,  and  she  began  her  me- 
chanical, "Hello,  hello — Bryant  2380 — yes,  yes — go 
ahead!" 

Evelyn  stood  watching  her,  hoping  wildly  that  she 
would  refute  the  statement  just  made.  All  the  colour 
that  excitement  had  fanned  into  her  cheeks  was  gone — 
she  felt  weak  and  faint.  Mr.  Brandon  gone — away  until 
August.  He  was  gone,  and  she  left  here  with  all  the 
other  managers  who  didn't  like  her  type! 

The  telephone  operator,  having  made  her  connections, 
looked  up  inquiringly  at  her.  She  turned  abruptly,  ran 
out  of  the  office  and  down  the  stairs. 

She  hadn't  the  courage  to  go  elsewhere  to  look  for 
work;  her  desire  was  to  get  away  from  every  sight  and 
sound  of  the  theatrical  world.  She  hurried  to  her  hall 
bedroom  on  the  top  floor  of  the  ill-kept  rooming  house. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  house  was  filled  with 
the  fumes  of  coffee — the  late  risers  were  preparing  their 
own  breakfasts.  The  odour  sickened  Evelyn,  and  she 
hurried  up  the  stairs  to  her  room.  She  took  off  her  new 
hat  and  gloves  without  looking  at  them.  Once  undressed 
she  dropped  on  the  bed  and  lay  there  through  the  after- 
noon, crushed  by  disappointment  and  depression. 

She  felt  so  alone,  so  unprotected,  so  unfortified,  ig- 
norant of  life,  and  how  to  meet  the  conditions  that  faced 
her.  Then  some  stray  words  of  Mary's  came  to  her: 
— 106— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"They  talk  of  our  freedom.  Why  don't  they  train  us 
for  freedom?  Half  the  things  a  girl  is  taught  so  care- 
fully at  home  are  the  things  that  she  has  to  throw  over- 
board when  she  comes  to  grips  with  the  world !" 

Evelyn  wondered  what  were  the  things  that  she  needed 
to  throw  overboard  in  order  to  earn  a  living.  Was  she 
always  to  be  as  now — shy,  uncertain,  inefficient?  Other 
women  got  on;  some  had  great  success — why  shouldn't 
she?  In  the  old  days  she  had  told  herself  that,  once 
free  of  Bob,  she  would  be  able  to  make  and  save  money, 
and  now,  at  the  first  disappointment,  she  was  going  under. 
This  was  a  bracing  thought.  She  rose,  dressed,  and, 
though  it  was  four  o'clock  and  the  day's  activity  apt 
to  be  over,  there  was  always  a  chance,  and,  at  any  rate, 
the  chief  thing  was  to  conquer  her  cowardice. 

At  each  agency  she  met  with  the  usual  "Nothing  to- 
day," and  at  last  she  deserted  the  theatrical  district,  and 
walked  up  Seventh  Avenue  towards  the  Park.  * 

It  was  a  cool,  fine  day,  and  all  New  York  seemed  out 
for  an  afternoon  airing.  Evelyn  sat  on  a  bench  near 
the  entrance  of  the  Park  and  watched  the  passing  throng: 
important-looking  dowagers  in  smart  victorias,  behind 
proud-stepping  horses,  presided  over  by  two  rigid  men 
in  livery,  perfect  in  appointment  from  the  plumes  on 
the  dowagers'  hats  to  the  silver  plates  on  the  thorough- 
breds' harness;  elegant  ladies,  sad  ladies,  flamboyant 
ladies  rolled  past  in  luxurious  limousines;  young  men 
crouching  in  low-hung  racing  cars  smashing  the  speed 
limit  once  from  under  the  eye  of  the  traffic  policeman; 
taxicabs  with  men  and  furtive-eyed  women.  The  young, 
the  old,  the  gay,  the  sad,  whirling  by — the  world  riding 
— all  seeming  to  Evelyn  as  she  sat  on  the  Park  bench 
so  fortunate,  so  secure,  so  tremendously  superior. 

Her  absorption  was  broken  in  on  by  a  coarse,  throaty 
voice  saying,  "Lonely,  honey?"  She  looked  up  to  see  a 

—107— 


The  Least  Resistance 

pallid  youth  with  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  a 
toothpick  in  his  mouth,  leering  at  her. 

"Go  away !"  she  cried  hysterically. 

He  took  her  speech  for  encouragement,  and  moved 
nearer.  She  jumped  to  her  feet  and  hurried  away.  Down 
Seventh  Avenue,  almost  on  a  run,  so  intent  was  she  on 
getting  away  from  the  loathsome  creature  that  had  spoken 
to  her.  She  realised  with  a  flash  that  even  so  poor  a 
thing  as  the  protection  of  Bob  had  been,  it  had  at  least 
spared  her  such  insults  as  this.  But  now,  because  she 
was  alone,  and  because  she  was  poor — it  had  grown  to 
be  with  her  that  back  of  every  ill  stood  poverty — she 
was  subjected  to  this  humiliation.  Those  women  in  their 
carriages  and  motors  were  protected  from  such  experi- 
ences because  they  had  money. 

"I'll  have  it  some  day,"  she  said  to  herself  fiercely. 
"I'll  have  it  some  day!" 

And  that  night,  after  she  had  turned  out  the  light,  she 
lay  wide-eyed  in  the  darkness,  the  same  thought  tugging 
at  her  mind:  "I'll  have  money  some  day — I'll  be  free 
of  all  this— I  will— I  will." 

A  welcome  sound  awakened  her  the  next  morning — 
it  was  a  card  from  an  agency  asking  her  to  call  at  nine- 
thirty.  It  was  nine  as  she  read  it,  but  she  was  there 
on  time  and  met  a  man  who  had  run  over  from  Philadel- 
phia to  get  a  girl  for  his  vaudeville  act.  The  actress 
who  had  been  playing  the  part  had  been  sent  to  the  hos- 
pital the  night  before,  and  he  had  to  have  some  one  to 
open  at  the  three  o'clock  matinee. 

Evelyn  said  that  she  could  do  this,  and  though  she 
was  not  exactly  "the  type,"  expediency  triumphed  over 
the  pictorial  and  she  was  engaged. 

An  hour  later  she  was  on  the  train  with  McCarthy, 

going  over  the  new  part.    It  was  a  simple,  conventional 

ingenue  role.    Evelyn  had  played  many  like  it  in  stock, 

and  as  it  was  short  she  was  fairly  easy  in  her  lines  by 

— 108— 


The  Least  Resistance 

the  time  they  reached  Philadelphia.  She  promised  to  be 
letter  perfect  by  three  o'clock. 

This  pleased  McCarthy,  who  told  her  that  her  salary 
would  be  thirty  dollars  a  week,  and  the  act,  he  always 
called  it  "The  Act"  as  though  there  was  no  other  act 
in  the  world,  was  booked  for  a  six-months  tour. 

She  paused  a  moment  in  her  studying — thirty  dollars 
a  week  for  six  months ! 

"I  can  save  a  lot  of  money — a  lot!"  she  thought  to 
herself. 


— 109 — 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THE  ACT,"  as  Evelyn  soon  learned  to  call  it  with 
proper  emphasis  on  the  "the,"  which  grew 
into  a  joke  between  her  and  the  third  member  of  the 
company,  had  to  do  with  a  lovable,  comic  Irishman,  his 
daughter,  and  her  sweetheart.  The  old  man  had  a  strong 
inclination  towards  drink,  and  there  was  a  plot  between 
the  young  people  that  not  only  consummated  their  hopes, 
but  effected  a  reformation  of  the  father.  It  was  slender 
in  story,  played  for  laughs,  with  an  occasional  touch  of 
sentiment,  and  rounded  out  by  the  interpolation  of  an 
Irish  ballad  sung  by  the  lover,  a  broad-shouldered  young 
man  with  kind  eyes  and  a  sensitive  mouth. 

In  the  hurried  introduction  Evelyn  did  not  catch  his 
name,  but  McCarthy  called  him  "Hub,"  and  even  in  her 
excitement  she  stopped  to  think  that  it  was  a  very  appro- 
priate name.  He  was  round  and  solid  and  steady  and 
she  and  McCarthy  seemed  like  spokes  whirling  about  him. 
It  was  her  old  habit  of  making  a  picture  of  every  thought, 
and,  as  far  as  she  was  able,  sensation. 

They  had  rushed  from  the  train  to  the  theatre,  and 
behind  a  screen  on  which  a  moving  picture  was  being 
shown  for  the  early  comers,  they  had  a  rehearsal.  Mc- 
Carthy, a  nervous,  wiry  Irishman  to  whom  sixty  years 
had  not  brought  poise,  was  more  nervous  than  Evelyn, 
and  flung  a  hundred  directions  at  her. 

"Now,  my  dear,  wait  here — I  get  a  good  laugh  on  that 
line.  And  don't  you  sit  on  that  chair — it  collapses." 

"I'll  remember,"  Evelyn  answered. 

"And  when  you  run  off,  kiss  your  hand  to  me — remem- 
ber that  because  I  get  a  laugh  on  my  business,  and  don't 
— I  io— 


The  Least  Resistance 

you  look  at  my  feet  until  you  say,  'Why,  dad,  you've 
got  on  your  Sunday  shoes !'  " 

"Yes,  I'll  remember." 

"And  listen,  when  I  say — 'Me  take  the  pledge,  and 
St.  Patrick's  Day  in  the  morning' — don't  you  move, 
and " 

But  before  he  could  give  her  another  direction  the 
young  man  cut  in:  "Say,  Mack,  you'd  better  leave  all 
that  stuff  until  after  the  first  show ;  if  she  gets  the  lines 
now,  it'll  be  fine." 

Evelyn  smiled  gratefully  at  him,  for  these  numerous 
directions  were  uprooting  the  lines  that  were  planted  so 
lightly  in  her  memory. 

McCarthy,  reminded  that  he  was  lacking  in  considera- 
tion, apologised,  and  told  her  to  get  through  the  first 
show  the  best  way  she  could,  and  he  would  be  satisfied. 

And  she  got  through  without  missing  a  word  or  a  cue, 
and  without  cutting  in  on  one  of  McCarthy's  precious 
laughs.  The  old  man  was  delighted,  and  the  younger 
one  congratulated  her,  and  went  out  and  brought  into 
her  dressing  room  some  lunch.  The  sight  of  food  re- 
minded Evelyn  that  she  hadn't  eaten  that  day.  She  was 
too  nervous  to  eat  now,  but  it  touched  her  deeply  to 
have  some  one  think  of  her,  and  consider  her  comfort. 

She  stood  in  the  wings  with  "Hub"  waiting  for  her 
cue  to  enter.  The  act  played  three  times  a  day,  and  this 
was  the  second  performance,  and  more  dreaded  than  the 
first,  for  then  the  excitement  had  carried  her  through, 
but  since  then  she  had  had  time  to  think,  and  to  receive 
numerous  directions  from  McCarthy,  and  she  was  not  so 
sure  of  herself.  And  she  was  so  anxious  to  please,  so 
eager  to  keep  her  engagement,  though  her  joy  in  finding 
the  work  was  tempered  by  the  thought  of  the  girl  in  the 
hospital. 

"Is  she  alone — without  friends  ?"  she  asked  the  man  at 
her  side. 

— in — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"No,  her  mother  came  to-day;  she  is  well  taken  care 
of,"  he  assured  her. 

"I  am  so  glad." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.     "I  am,  too." 

Then,  a  moment  later,  as  he  saw  fingers  lacing  and 
unlacing  nervously,  and  her  eyelids  fluttering,  he  added, 
"Don't  be  nervous — you  were  all  right  this  afternoon." 

"But  the  second  time  is  always  hard." 

"I  know,  but — there's  your  cue — smile  as  you  go  on." 
He  gave  her  a  gentle  push,  and  she  walked  on,  smiling 
happily. 

The  act  ran  through  smoothly — Mack  got  every  one 
of  his  laughs  and  five  curtain  calls,  and  he  was  radiant. 
He  patted  Evelyn  on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  "I'm  some 
picker  of  talent — eh,  Hub  ?" 

For  answer  Hub  said,  "You  are!"  and  they  retired 
to  their  respective  dressing  rooms  to  wait  until  the  pro- 
gramme should  swing  around  again  to  their  turn. 

It  was  Evelyn's  first  experience  in  vaudeville,  and  she 
was  seeing  it  at  its  hardest — three,  on  Sundays  and  holi- 
days, four,  performances  a  day;  long  waits  in  stuffy 
dressing  rooms,  but  she  accepted  the  long  hours,  the  tire- 
some waits,  the  strange  companions  gratefully — anything 
to  be  away  from  the  uncertainty  and  pain  of  being  in 
New  York  without  a  job. 

That  night,  as  she  gave  her  hair  the  hundred  strokes 
guaranteed  to  keep  it  soft  and  silky,  she  went  over 
the  events  of  the  day,  a  long,  long  day  it  had  been. 
It  seemed  a  year  ago  since  she  was  awakened  at  nine 
o'clock  by  the  sound  of  a  card  being  pushed  under  the 
door.  Since  then  she  had  seen  a  manager,  packed  her 
trunk,  travelled  to  Philadelphia,  learned  a  part,  and 
given  three  performances,  and  best  of  all  had  received 
high  praise  from  her  employer.  She  was  tired  and 
sleepy  and  happy — happiness  was  a  new  and  wonderful 
thing  to  her. 


The  Least  Resistance 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  before  she 
opened  her  eyes.  She  sat  up,  looked  about  the  strange 
room,  then,  with  a  grateful  sigh,  sank  back,  remember- 
ing— remembering  that  she  was  away  from  the  New 
York  rooming  house,  that  she  had  an  engagement,  and 
the  day  would  not  be  filled  with  the  discouragement  and 
pain  of  job  hunting. 

It  was  good  to  lie  in  bed,  relaxed  in  body,  and  easy 
in  mind.  She  was  not  due  at  the  theatre  until  two,  so 
she  pulled  the  light  cover  up  under  her  chin  and  luxuri- 
ated in  her  leisure  and  new  independence. 

She  had  fifty  dollars  left  of  the  money  she  had  saved 
with  "No  Guiding  Hand,"  and  for  six  months  she  was 
going  to  get  thirty  dollars  a  week.  She  ought  to  be  able 
to  save  fifteen  dollars  each  week — that  would  mean 
wealth  by  the  time  the  season  closed.  She  would  make 
her  last  summer's  clothes  do,  and  she  would  live  in  cheap 
hotels,  and  eat  in  inexpensive  restaurants — nothing  should 
interfere  with  her  saving  money,  for  that  meant  ease 
and  security  when  she  returned  to  New  York.  Life  was 
very  sweet  to  her  this  morning — very  sweet  and  prom- 
ising. 

The  week  wore  on  and  she  became  better  acquainted 
with  the  two  men  in  the  act.  Old  man  McCarthy  would 
sit  in  her  dressing  room  during  the  long  waits  and  spin 
for  her  tales  of  other  days  and  dead  and  gone  "perform- 
ers"— everybody  who  made  their  living  on  the  stage, 
from  Edwin  Booth  to  an  animal  trainer  was  a  "perform- 
er," and  all  branches  of  the  theatrical  profession  came 
under  the  general  title  of  "Show  Business." 

For  the  most  part  McCarthy's  stories  were  of  the  old 
minstrels  and  minstrel  men ;  the  tricks  they  played  on 
railroads — how  a  business  manager's  ability  was  esti- 
mated by  his  knack  of  transporting  twenty  people  on  a 
ticket  that  called  for  fifteen.  He  told  her  of  the  Medicine 
Shows,  some  that  travelled  through  the  Northwest  in 


The  Least  Resistance 

wagons,  of  dealings  with  the  Indians  and  pioneer  peo- 
ple, of  the  present  well-known  actors  who  had  made 
their  start  on  the  platforms  where,  between  song  and 
joke  telling,  the  Marvellous  Balm  that  would  cure  all  ills 
was  sold.  As  his  talk  neared  the  present  it  was  of  people 
of  the  vaudeville  world ;  occasionally  there  was  mention 
of  a  "legit,"  but  it  was  only  in  passing. 

Evelyn  sat  during  these  long  recitals  with  her  sewing 
in  her  hand,  answering  him  with  a  word  here,  a  smile 
there.  She  liked  the  shrewd,  kindly  old  man,  who  never 
asked  her  a  question  about  herself,  never  showed  the 
least  desire  to  pry  into  her  past  or  her  private  life,  but 
treated  her  with  respect  and  consideration  and  a  certain 
impersonal  tenderness. 

When  he  was  not  about  the  young  man,  whose  name  she 
learned  was  Bert  Hubbard,  came  in  for  a  chat.  He  would 
stand  in  the  doorway,  his  broad  shoulders  almost  filling 
the  opening,  and  tell  her  interesting,  amusing  things  while 
her  busy  fingers  went  on  with  the  sewing. 

She  found  him  easier  to  talk  to  than  McCarthy,  and 
when  she  discovered  that  he  was  from  Tennessee  she 
felt  very  much  at  home  with  him.  Her  own  home  had 
been  near  the  border  and  their  earlier  days  had  been 
passed  under  the  same  conditions. 

They  laughed  over  the  customs  of  the  small  towns, 
the  picnics,  the  dances,  the  love  affairs,  and  rivalries. 
He  told  her  of  wandering  away  from  his  home  town  off 
to  Texas,  where  he  had  survived  by  picking  up  odd  jobs ; 
he  told  her  of  the  hardships  he  had  endured  as  a  mem- 
ber of  an  engineering  party  sent  out  to  survey  govern- 
ment land ;  afterwards  he  had  ridden  range,  and  been  a 
cook  on  an  Arizona  ranch ;  had  sung  illustrated  songs  in 
a  San  Francisco  cafe;  he  had  prospected  in  Alaska,  and 
been  stranded  with  a  company  in  South  America.  He 
had  a  scar  over  his  left  eye  that  was  a  souvenir  of  this 
last  experience,  but  refused  to  tell  her  its  history,  so  she 
—114— 


The  Least  Resistance 

made  it  the  centre  of  a  thrilling  romance  with  a  tropical 
beauty. 

It  was  a  simple,  objective  tale  of  an  adventurous  life, 
but  to  Evelyn,  whose  own  life  had  been  colourless  and 
cramped,  it  spelt  romance,  wonder  and  beauty.  It  was 
easy  to  imagine  the  whole  of  it  happening  to  him.  He 
was  so  strong,  so  capable — the  broad  shoulders,  the  pow- 
erful hands,  the  kind,  steady  eyes,  and  the  gentle,  humor- 
ous mouth. 

She  had  no  gift  for  analysis,  was  unable  to  isolate  the 
qualities  that  made  up  the  man,  and  then  synthesise  them 
as  a  more  sophisticated  mind  would  have  done.  But  she 
liked  him,  felt  at  home  with  him.  Her  nerves  came  to 
rest  in  his  poise,  and  to  her  who  for  so  long  a  time  had 
been  seeking  some  security,  some  sense  of  permanence, 
this  was  a  new  and  agreeable  sensation.  She  was  thor- 
oughly unaware  that  it  was  a  dangerous  one. 

The  little  company  played  around  the  smaller  Ohio 
towns  waiting  for  their  opening  on  the  Western  circuit. 
As  a  rule  they  played  "split  weeks" — the  first  three  days 
in  one  town,  the  last  three  in  another. 

It  was  on  such  a  move  from  Youngstown  to  Akron 
that  Evelyn  and  Hubbard  found  what  good  friends  they 
had  become. 

The  theatres  were  under  the  same  management,  and 
when  the  "bill"  as  a  whole  went  over  to  Akron  to  finish 
out  the  week,  McCarthy  was  given  the  railway  tickets, 
and  was  the  temporary  manager  of  the  loosely  knit  or- 
ganisation. As  they  left  the  train  in  Akron  even  Evelyn's 
embryonic  sense  of  humour  was  touched  by  the  picture 
they  presented. 

Leading  the  procession  that  marched  up  the  hill  were 
the  two  contortionists  in  "jaunty  suits"  and  "nifty  hats"; 
then  a  stout  man  with  a  large  monkey  in  a  basket ;  next 
two  negro  comedians  wearing  red  waistcoats  and  carry- 
ing their  bags  and  trombone  cases;  and  winding  up  the 

—US— 


The  Least  Resistance 

parade  was  the  "single  woman,"  with  a  large  bag  in 
one  hand  and  under  the  other  arm  a  white  poodle;  at 
her  side  walked  McCarthy,  brave  in  his  checked  suit  and 
tan  derby. 

Evelyn  crossed  the  street  to  escape  this  grotesque  pro- 
cession. 

"Let  me  carry  that  bag  up  the  hill,"  a  voice  said,  and 
turning,  she  saw  that  Hubbard  was  just  behind  her. 

"It  isn't  heavy;  I  don't  mind  it,"  she  answered. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  he  said,  taking  it  out  of  her  hand,  "it 
is  heavy — full  of  bottles." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Just  a  good  guess."  Then,  looking  across  the  street, 
he  smiled.  "Some  sight  that." 

"We  are  like  a  circus  parade,"  she  answered. 

"More  like  the  animals  coming  out  of  the  Ark.  Turn 
down  this  street  and  we'll  lose  them." 

Without  protest  she  followed  him,  relieved  in  not  hav- 
ing to  find  her  way  to  the  hotel. 

"Here,"  he  said,  as  he  paused  before  a  bakery,  "is  a 
good  place  to  eat — don't  you  want  to  have  your  lunch 
before  you  go  to  the  hotel  ?" 

"Yes,  if  I'm  not  hungry,  the  hotel  won't  seem  so  bad." 
With  her  resolution  to  live  on  fifteen  dollars  a  week  she 
had  encountered  some  hotels  worse  than  those  she  and 
Bob  had  patronised,  but  she  was  sticking  bravely  to  her 
resolve,  and  in  three  weeks  forty-five  dollars  had  gone 
into  money  orders — true,  fifteen  had  to  go  to  the  agent 
in  New  York,  but  the  rest  was  hers,  and  was  just  the 
beginning  of  the  great  sum  that  she  was  going  to  save. 

In  answer  to  her  last  speech  Hub  pushed  open  the  door 
of  the  bakery  and  held  it  with  his  foot  while  she  entered, 
then  he  followed  with  the  bags. 

It  was  the  lunch  hour,  and  the  place  was  crowded ; 
there  were  hurrying  waitresses,  and  the  clatter  of  dishes, 
and  record-breaking  eating  at  the  long  tables. 
—116— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"A  fine  sword  swallower  there,"  Hub  said,  indicating 
a  man  who  was  lifting  a  large  piece  of  pie  to  his  mouth 
on  his  knife.  "There  are  two  seats  in  the  corner — 
hurry." 

They  rushed  over  to  the  corner  and  he  held  her  chair 
and  handed  her  the  menu  before  he  seated  himself.  His 
simple,  unconscious  courtesy  made  her  feel  shy  and  a 
bit  uncomfortable,  after  the  years  of  indifference  she 
had  known  as  Bob's  wife. 

They  enjoyed  the  lunch,  or  rather  they  enjoyed  each 
other  until  he  spoiled  it  by  not  allowing  her  to  pay  for 
her  share.  She  was  sensitive  about  money,  and  as  much 
as  she  wanted  to  save,  she  had  a  passionate  wish  to  take 
care  of  herself. 

"I  can't  let  you,"  she  said. 

"But  I  want  to.  Why  make  a  fuss  about  such  a  little 
thing?" 

"But  I  can't — I "  She  was  about  to  say  that  she 

would  never  come  with  him  again,  and  it  occurred  to  her 
that  it  would  not  matter  to  him  whether  she  came  or  not 
— she  had  small  vanity  about  her  charms.  Though  she 
protested  again,  he  paid  the  bill  and  they  left  the  res- 
taurant. 

They  walked  to  the  hotel  in  silence,  and  as  the  clerk 
gave  her  the  key  to  her  room  she  went  on  up  the  stairs 
without  a  word  or  glance  at  him. 

He  looked  after  her  with  a  puzzled,  hurt  smile  on  his 
face.  The  mind  of  a  girl  with  whom  life  had  dealt  as  it 
had  with  Evelyn  was  a  closed  book  to  him. 

His  attitude  towards  women  was  simple — kindly  dis- 
posed in  general,  interested  sometimes  by  a  pretty  face 
or  a  vivacious  manner,  but  no  shaft  had  ever  been  sent 
down  to  touch  the  depths.  In  spite  of  the  shift  and 
change  of  his  life,  his  constant  association  with  people 
to  whom  he  gave  much,  and  from  whom  he  received 
little,  he  had  kept  as  clean  and  fine  as  a  man  may.  He 

—117— 


The  Least  Resistance 

had  a  mind  stored  with  practical  facts  and  first-hand  in- 
formation, but  the  world  of  art  and  abstract  thought  was 
an  unknown  country  to  him.  He  was  tremendously  virile, 
and  capable  of  great  tenderness,  and  in  Evelyn,  so  essen- 
tially feminine,  there  was  an  appeal  that  haunted  and 
interested  and  stirred  him  as  no  other  woman  ever  had. 


— II*- 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

THEY  opened  in  Cincinnati.  "The  Act,"  billed  as 
"the  extra  added  attraction,"  gave  satisfaction  to 
the  audience  and  the  management,  and  confirmed  Mc- 
Carthy's belief  that  it  was  the  best  act  in  vaudeville. 
This  was  the  opening  of  the  Western  Circuit,  and  here 
they  were  joined  by  five  other  acts  forming  a  complete 
programme  which,  like  a  wheel,  would  roll  to  the  Coast 
and  back  again. 

Evelyn  looked  with  interest  at  these  people  whom  she 
would  see  daily,  nightly,  for  nearly  six  months.  There 
were  Knott  and  Camp,  who  opened  the  bill.  They  were 
roller  skaters,  advertised  as  "The  Comic  Boys  on 
Wheels."  They  had  been  together  for  years,  and  their 
mutual  appreciation  was  shown  in  their  names  for  each 
other— one  was  "His  Nibs,"  the  other  "His  Nobs."  The 
latter  hailed  from  a  Southern  town,  and  his  drawl  gave  a 
certain  charm  to  his  vaudeville  slang.  His  Nibs  was  a 
product  of  the  Bowery,  and  lived  to  war  with  the  cruel 
and  stupid  Fate  that  always  relegated  roller  skaters  to 
the  ignominious  position  of  first  on  the  bill. 

Next  on  the  programme  were  "The  Dancing  Dudes,"  a 
trio  of  loose-jointed  boys  who  wound  up  their  act  with 
a  "soft  shoe  dance"  that  never  missed  fire.  Then  fol- 
lowed the  inevitable  "sister  act,"  composed  of  May  and 
June  Divine — June,  a  tall,  stunning  girl  who  sang  ballads 
in  a  slightly  nasal  voice  and  was  a  foil  for  the  eccentric 
comedy  of  May. 

Following  the  sisters  was  McCarthy's  act,  and  then 
"Great  Scott,"  the  monologuist,  walked  out  before  the 
drop  and  delivered  himself  of  Negro,  Irish,  and  Jew 
stories. 

—119- 


The  Least  Resistance 

Then  came  the  headliner,  Todd  Orr,  an  English  im- 
portation, a  short,  slight  man  with  a  face  like  a  saint 
and  a  cockney  accent  as  thick  as  a  London  fog.  Orr  was 
a  quick-change  artist,  and  sang  ballads  and  cockney  dit- 
ties in  appropriate  costumes  and  settings.  He  had  a 
pleasing  tenor  voice  and  a  magnetic  personality.  He  car- 
ried five  trunks  and  a  valet,  and  dressed  in  the  latest 
mode  on  and  off  the  stage,  but  this  was  business  done  to 
impress  the  managers  and  the  public.  He  went  with  the 
other  performers  to  the  cheaper  hotels,  and  each  week 
sent  the  bulk  of  his  salary  to  a  home  bank. 

The  watchword  of  the  crowd  was  "thrift."  There 
were  only  two  exceptions — Great  Scott,  who  supported  a 
bar  in  each  town,  and  Hubbard,  to  whom  money  was  as 
a  handful  of  sand  to  let  slip  through  the  fingers  for  the 
pleasure  of  feeling  it  go.  He  made  money,  spent  it,  and 
gave  no  thought  to  the  future. 

From  Cincinnati  they  moved  to  Chicago,  and  then  to 
Milwaukee.  By  this  time  Evelyn  was  so  identified  with 
the  sketch  and  the  two  men  who  made  up  the  company 
that  all  her  life  before  seemed  like  a  story  that  she  had 
read  and  half  remembered.  Sometimes,  waking  in  the 
night,  she  would  think  of  Bob,  hope  fervently  that  he  had 
pulled  himself  together,  dismiss  him,  and  drop  again 
into  sleep.  Her  nerves  were  too  quiet,  and  she  was  too 
much  at  peace  with  the  world  for  long,  wakeful  hours. 
Not  since  her  childhood  had  she  been  so  surrounded,  so 
encompassed  by  kindness  and  attention. 

In  his  rough  way  McCarthy  looked  after  her  and 
cheered  her.  She  was  a  "great  girl,"  and  "some  per- 
former," and  he  had  a  "gun  for  any  stage  door  Johnny 
that  hung  about."  He  treated  her  as  though  she  were 
a  dainty,  delicate  thing,  and  in  her  presence  he  left  off 
his  profanity  and  expurgated  his  stories. 

The  other  people  on  the  bill  took  their  cue  from  Mc- 
Carthy and  treated  her  with  a  deference  that  was  new 
— 120 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  pleasing.  These  people,  who  knew  life  stripped  of 
its  trappings,  were  quick  to  scent  anything  that  was  out 
of  their  world,  and  they  had  an  enormous  respect  for  it, 
if  there  was  no  assumption  of  superiority,  and  no  affecta- 
tion. Evelyn's  simplicity,  her  gentleness,  her  evident  re- 
finement, and  little  unconscious  acts  of  courtesy,  made  a 
great  hit  with  the  vaudevillians,  and  they  called  her 
"some  little  lady." 

The  last  to  yield  to  her  graciousness  were  the  Divine 
Sisters.  They  thought  that  she  was  "giving  herself  airs," 
that  she  was  too  good,  in  her  own  estimation,  for  them, 
but  this  soon  passed  away,  and  the  repository  of  the  woes 
of  the  beautiful,  tempestuous  June  and  the  slangy,  prac- 
tical May  was  Evelyn's  sympathetic  ear. 

And  there  was  Hubbard!  She  was  his  first  thought 
in  the  morning,  his  concern  during  the  day,  and  his 
vision  by  night.  They  had  long  talks  in  the  theatre,  they 
took  long  walks  together,  but  she  avoided  him  at  meal 
times,  unless  they  were  living  on  the  American  plan 
where  the  cheque  would  not  be  a  cause  for  disagreement. 

The  talk  between  them  was  seldom  personal;  he  told 
her  minutely  of  his  life,  but  in  such  an  objective  way 
that  it  might  have  been  the  history  of  some  one  else  that 
he  was  relating.  Whenever  there  was  a  story  that  re- 
dounded to  his  credit  it  was  always  told  as  having  hap- 
pened to  "a  fellow  that  I  know." 

Evelyn  learned  to  smile  at  this  deception,  and  once, 
when  this  "young  fellow"  was  hero  of  a  fight,  and  saved 
a  girl  from  death  and  got  a  scar  for  life,  she  said  quietly, 
"Yes,  I  have  noticed  that  scar  on  your  forehead." 

He  denied  it  vehemently,  and  pulled  his  hat  low  to 
hide  the  tell-tale  scar. 

But  though  he  talked  freely  to  her  of  himself,  Evelyn's 
past  was  a  book  that  she  never  opened  for  him.  She  had 
put  away  her  wedding  ring,  resumed  her  maiden  name, 
and  was  trying  to  shape  her  life  away  from  all  thought 

— 121 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

of  Bob.  It  was  easy  enough  to  do  this  in  the  atmosphere 
of  kindness  and  appreciation  that  surrounded  her  these 
days. 

In  Milwaukee  she  went  with  McCarthy  and  Hub  to 
the  great  beer  garden.  She  had  a  busy  hour  between 
the  first  and  second  shows,  making  ready  for  the  occa- 
sion. A  last  summer's  dress  was  taken  out  of  the  trunk 
and  pressed,  and  the  bow  on  an  old  hat  re-tied.  She 
was  rewarded  by  the  complete  subjugation  of  her  two 
cavaliers,  which  made  a  very  pleasant  beginning  to  the 
party. 

They  found  a  table  in  a  corner  of  the  great,  crowded, 
smoke-filled  pavilion.  The  tables  were  jammed  together 
so  close  that  the  waiters  had  to  squeeze  in  and  out  to 
take  orders  and  deliver  steins  of  foaming  beer.  Smoke 
curled  from  hundreds  of  cigars  and  cigarettes ;  there  was 
talk  and  laughter,  and  through  it  all  the  crash  of  the 
orchestra. 

Evelyn's  eyes  grew  bright  and  she  smiled  at  Hubbard, 
who  sat  opposite  her,  his  eyes  never  shifting  from  her 
face.  McCarthy  had  swung  about  in  his  chair,  stein  in 
one  hand,  cigar  in  the  other,  watching  the  movements 
of  the  eccentric  conductor. 

"Well?"  Evelyn  said  after  a  pause. 

"Not  'well.'  It  has  such  a  'what's-the-use'  sound," 
Hubbard  answered. 

"I  don't  feel  that  way." 

"Why  should  you?     You  look  about  sixteen." 

She  laughed.  "It's  the  bonnet — a  wise  lady  must  have 
invented  these  bonnets ;  they  defy  time." 

"It  is  not  the  bonnet;  it  is  the  girl,"  he  insisted. 

"You've  been  learning  from  Mr.  McCarthy,"  she  said, 
and  at  the  sound  of  his  name  the  old  man  turned  to  her. 

"What  about  me,  Dolly  Varden?"  he  asked. 

"You  see,  it  is  the  bonnet,"  she  said  to  Hub,  but  for 
answer  he  shook  his  head. 
— 122 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

After  this  they  came  every  evening,  and  at  twelve 
o'clock  McCarthy  would  give  the  signal.  "Take  the  little 
girl  home,  Hub;  it's  time  she  was  abed.  I'm  going  to 
have  another  stein,  and  hear  Ignatz  play  'Come  Back  to 
Erin' — I've  sent  up  my  request — that'll  get  his  Italian 
goat."  And  McCarthy  wrinkled  his  face  in  a  smile  at 
his  own  joke. 

Unknown  to  Evelyn,  this  sending  her  home  with  Hub 
was  a  bit  of  policy  on  the  old  man's  part.  He  desired 
to  bring  about  a  happy  ending  to  the  romance  that  he 
scented.  He  had  known  Hub  for  years,  had  never  be- 
fore seen  him  display  much  interest  in  a  girl,  and  now 
that  the  lad  was  caught,  why  he  was  going  to  help  him 
along — no  woman  could  be  wanting  a  better  man  than 
Hub. 

Nothing  could  have  pleased  Hubbard  more,  though  he 
was  as  far  from  suspecting  McCarthy  as  Evelyn.  He 
accepted  gratefully  this  chance  of  being  alone  with  her, 
and  it  paved  the  way  for  times  when,  having  grown 
accustomed  to  him,  she  would  consent  to  be  without  the 
chaperonage  of  McCarthy. 

Had  she  been  more  actively  interested  she  would  have 
instinctively  put  a  check  on  the  ripening  of  their  friend- 
ship, but  she  felt  towards  him  very  much  as  she  had 
towards  Mary — at  least  she  thought  so.  She  was  too 
untrained  in  mind  to  know  that  a  personality  that  brings 
with  it  a  sense  of  peace  and  security  and  deep  rest  fulness 
has  a  grip  that  no  mere  surface  charm  can  ever  possess. 

The  wheel  rolled  on  through  Minneapolis  and  St. 
Paul,  and  July  found  them  in  Winnipeg,  and  here  they 
had  their  first  free  Sunday.  Most  of  the  "vaudevillians" 
slept  it  through.  The  prospect  of  an  idle  day  had  given 
a  fresh  impetus  to  the  Saturday  night  parties,  and  a  day 
of  recuperation  was  needed.  Beer  had  flowed  freely  the 
night  before;  Great  Scott  and  McCarthy  sat  late  over 

—123— 


The  Least  Resistance 

their  bottles  and  talked  of  other  days  and  dead  and  gone 
performers.  When  they  parted  each  carried  to  his 
room  several  bottles  in  anticipation  of  the  dry  Sunday 
before  them.  The  Dancing  Dudes,  the  Roller  Skaters, 
and  May  Divine  sat  all  night  in  a  poker  game.  June, 
who  had  committed  the  indiscretion  of  losing  her  heart 
to  Todd  Orr,  spent  the  night  in  tears,  because  he  was  out 
with  "old  friends  from  England."  June  had  done  a  little 
detective  work  and  overheard  His  Nibs  tell  His  Nobs 
that  Todd  was  out  with  a  "blonde  who  was  old,  but 
nifty."  It  was  daybreak  before  June  could  forget  her 
troubles  in  sleep,  and  it  was  after  this  that  the  others 
sought  their  beds. 

Evelyn  and  Hubbard  were  the  only  members  of  the 
organisation  who  were  up  and  ready  the  next  morning  to 
take  advantage  of  the  fair  summer  day. 

They  spent  the  morning  in  a  canoe  on  the  river.  He 
paddled  far  up  stream  and  they  drifted  back;  they 
caught  the  swell  of  a  passing  boat  and  rode  it  with  no 
sense  of  danger.  With  him  it  would  have  been  impossi- 
ble to  feel  afraid,  he  was  so  strong,  so  entirely  capable 
of  taking  care  of  himself  and  her.  Unconsciously  she 
was  growing  to  depend  on  this  strength  and  this  capabil- 
ity. He  saw  that  she  was  on  time  at  trains,  that  she 
was  comfortable  in  hotels,  that  she  had  her  meals  regu- 
larly, that  she  got  home  safely  at  night  from  the  theatre. 
He  gave  all  of  this  and  asked  nothing  in  return  save 
that  she  receive  it. 

When  she  refused  some  offer  of  solicitude,  the  blood 
would  creep  into  his  cheeks  and  his  lips  tighten — she 
never  knew  whether  he  was  hurt  or  angry,  but  he  always 
left  her,  only  to  return  a  little  later  with  some  other  plan 
for  her  comfort. 

Her  resistance  to  this  kindness  grew  weaker  with  each 
passing  day,  and  she  grew  to  lean  on  him,  to  expect,  even 
to  make  demands  in  her  gentle,  tactful  way.  He  was 
—124— 


The  Least  Resistance 

radiantly  happy,  and  she  was  caught  up  in  the  force  of 
this  happiness,  and  her  usual  apathy  gave  way  to  a  gentle 
vivacity  that  made  her  prettier  and  more  attractive. 

Now  she  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  canoe,  one  hand  trail- 
ing in  the  water  while  he  paddled  and  smoked  and  told 
her  incidents  of  a  hunting  trip  in  Canada. 

"What  a  lot  of  things  you've  done,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  too  many — Jack  of  all  trades." 

"Why  not  stick  to  one?" 

"Can't — born  tramp." 

"You  don't  seem  a  bit  like  an  actor,"  she  said  ingenu- 
ously. 

"I'm  not — just  riding  the  trucks  to  the  next  town." 

"But  what  is  in  the  next  town?" 

"Nothing — just  the  fun  of  getting  there.  If  I  didn't 
have  the  wanderlust  in  my  veins,  I'd  be  settled  on  a  cot- 
ton plantation  in  Arkansas." 

"Really?" 

"But  no,  I  let  my  grandmother  struggle  along  with  an 
incompetent  overseer  while  I  tramp  about  the  country, 
painting  my  face  and  singing  an  Irish  love  song — fine 
job  for  a  man — but  it  has  its  advantages."  He  smiled  at 
her.  "I  wouldn't  be  paddling  you  up  Red  River  if  I 
were  a  good,  industrious  youth." 

She  smiled  at  him  in  return.  "But  you  would  have  a 
nice  home,  and  human  food,  and  bales  of  cotton,  and  a 
garden,  if  you  wanted  it — I  think  I  would  rather  have  a 
garden  than  anything  in  the  world.  We  used  to  have 
such  lovely  flowers  at  home.  In  the  spring  the  crocus, 
and  jonquils,  and  hyacinths,  and  in  the  summer,  roses. 
Oh,  roses  everywhere,  and  night-blooming  jessamine — 
sometimes  I  smell  them  now  in  my  sleep — and  in  the  fall 
the  scarlet  sage  and  hollyhocks.  Mother  and  I  used  to 
watch  them  come  and  go — and  now  I've  got  to  travel  all 
my  life,  and  never  have  a  little  garden.  Ah,  well !"  She 
smiled  whimsically  at  him. 

—125— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Shall  we  cut  out  this  trouping,  and  go  down  to  the 
plantation,  and  make  a  garden?"  His  paddle  was  at 
rest,  and  he  was  looking  at  her  with  grave,  inquiring  eyes. 

"If  grandmother  can  use  her  land  for  cotton,  she 
wouldn't  have  a  flower  garden."  Then,  to  change  the 
subject  she  pointed  to  an  island  past  which  they  were 
drifting.  "Isn't  that  a  beautiful  place!" 

"Shall  we  land  and  explore?" 

"Yes,  let's  do." 

He  pulled  the  boat  to  the  shore  and  helped  her  out. 
It  was  a  thickly  wooded  island  which  had  not  yielded  to 
the  half-hearted  attempts  to  make  a  park  of  it;  the  few 
benches  scattered  about  under  the  trees  were  sur- 
rounded by  tall  grass,  and  the  walk  that  crossed  the 
strip  of  land  was  almost  hidden  by  the  grass  that  grew 
up  between  the  boards — following  it  with  the  eye  it 
seemed  a  faintly  worn  path  that  went  down  to  the  water 
on  the  other  side  of  the  island.  The  trees  laced  over- 
head, there  was  a  heavy  undergrowth  of  shrubbery,  and 
a  few  pale  wild  flowers  peeping  here  and  there. 

The  two  explorers  had  the  place  to  themselves,  the 
Sunday  crowds  not  having  arrived  from  the  city.  In  the 
deep  stillness  of  the  woods  the  sudden  call  of  a  bird 
high  up  in  a  tree  was  startling  and  weird,  and  the  far-off 
whistle  of  a  train  intensified  their  feeling  of  remoteness. 
Hubbard  was  at  home  in  the  woods,  and  felt  at  once  the 
spell  of  it,  and  Evelyn,  sensitive  to  all  beauty,  responded 
to  this  new  variety. 

"Nice  place  to  camp,"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  her  breathless  way  that  had  such 
charm  for  him. 

"Quiet— away." 

"Yes,"  she  said  again.  He  had  her  arm,  guiding  her 
along  the  uncertain  walk.  Through  her  thin  sleeve  she 
could  feel  his  hand,  so  big  that  it  closed  around  her  el- 
bow. She  was  so  close  to  him  that  when  the  call  of  the 
—126— 


The  Least  Resistance 

bird  again  broke  the  stillness  and  she  looked  up  to  locate 
the  sound,  she  leaned  unconsciously  against  him.  She 
heard  the  swift  intake  of  his  breath  and  moved  away, 
withdrawing  her  arm  gently  from  his  clasp,  apparently 
for  the  practical  purpose  of  leading  the  way  down  the 
narrow  path. 

They  spent  the  day  on  the  water  and  in  the  woods,  eat- 
ing the  lunch  they  had  brought  from  town  under  a  great 
tree  whose  branches  spread  over  them  and  dipped  down 
to  trail  in  water  that  lapped  the  shore. 

"Think  of  the  beautiful  places  one  never  dreams  of 
until  you  stumble  on  them  as  we  did  this  one,"  Evelyn 
said. 

"This  is  just  a  beginning  of  the  great  places  we  are 
going  to,  and  the  good  times  we  are  going  to  have.  Wait 
until  we  strike  the  Coast.  You  don't  know  what  a  coun- 
try is  until  you  have  seen  California." 

He  dwelt  at  length  on  the  wonders  and  beauties  of  the 
land  toward  which  they  were  working,  of  the  snow-clad 
Shasta  that  one  could  see  from  the  car  window,  if  one 
waked  early  enough;  of  the  leaping  beauty  of  Shasta 
Springs ;  of  San  Francisco,  and  all  its  charm,  of  the  all- 
day  ride  on  "The  Lark"  to  Los  Angeles — the  long  stretch 
when  the  train  runs  by  the  sea — the  calm,  blue  Pacific, 
and  then  San  Diego.  Words  failed  when  he  tried  to 
tell  her  of  the  sunshine,  the  breeze  that  never  died  away, 
the  water.  "It  is  the  garden  spot  of  America,"  he  fin- 
ished enthusiastically. 

It  was  dark  when  they  returned  to  the  city,  and  after 
dinner  she  left  him,  saying  that  she  must  have  a  long 
night's  rest  to  be  ready  for  the  journey  to-morrow.  He 
saw  her  to  her  door.  She  extended  her  hand  to  thank 
him  for  the  day,  he  held  it  for  a  moment,  raised  it  to  his 
lips  and  kissed  it.  She  withdrew  it  hastily,  and  without 
further  word  turned  into  her  room. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  dropped  to  sleep,  and 

— 127 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

before  she  did  she  promised  herself  that  to-morrow  she 
would  tell  Hubbard  about  Bob. 

But  in  the  morning  her  anxiety  seemed  without  founda- 
tion. He  met  her  in  a  calm,  friendly  spirit,  that  had 
no  suggestion  of  the  lover  in  it,  and,  prompted  by  her 
great  desire  to  let  her  past  rest,  she  decided  that  she 
would  maintain  her  policy  of  silence. 

It  was  a  long  ride  into  Butte,  and  the  tourist  sleepers 
which  her  economy  forced  her  into  were  uncomfortable 
and  crowded.  Most  of  the  "vaudevillians"  were  accus- 
tomed to  these  long  trips,  and  settled  down  to  kill  the 
time  with  poker,  sleep,  or  long  story-telling  sessions  in 
the  smoker. 

Evelyn,  never  a  good  traveller,  was  rendered  most 
unhappy  by  the  occupants  of  the  berth  just  across  from 
her — an  Italian  woman  with  two  babies  who  required 
constant  attention,  and,  to  Evelyn,  it  seemed  constant 
feeding.  One  cried  incessantly,  a  thin,  sickly  cry,  and 
the  other  joined  in  the  chorus  when  it  was  not  busy  with 
a  long  stick  of  pink  candy.  The  worn  mother  bore  with 
them  patiently,  and  was  even  brave  enough  to  smile  wanly 
when  Evelyn  spoke  to  the  crying  baby.  In  spite  of  her 
sympathy  for  her  neighbours,  they  made  the  long  jour- 
ney doubly  trying,  and  when  the  mother  produced  a  large 
sandwich  from  which  exuded  the  odour  of  garlic,  she  was 
driven  from  her  seat  to  the  other  end  of  the  car. 

Hubbard  was  seated  by  a  window,  staring  out  at  the 
country  whirling  by.  He  turned  quickly  at  the  sound  of 
Evelyn's  voice. 

"May  I  sit  down  here  until  the  garlic  has  evaporated — 
or  does  it  ever  evaporate?" 

"I  believe  it  lingers  a  long  time.  But  sit  down.  Tired 
from  the  long  ride  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes ;  I  hate  to  travel,  especially 

"That's  it;  you  shouldn't  travel  in  these  coaches — 
—128— 


The  Least  Resistance 

i 

they  are  crowded  and  close,  and — you  shouldn't  do  it," 
he  finished  rather  sharply. 

"I  can't  afford  the  others,"  she  said  simply. 

"You  can,  only  you  are  afraid  of  the  future." 

"Well,  it's  a  thing  to  be  afraid  of." 

"No,  whether  you  save  money  or  not,  in  the  end  it  is 
the  same  thing." 

"Perhaps  for  you,  who  could  dig  a  ditch  if  you  hadn't 
a  job,  but  even  that  is  a  dangerous  way  to  look  at  it,  and 
for  me — well,  if  I  save  money  I  don't  get  back  to  New 
York  anxious  and  afraid,  and  if  I  have  money  I  won't 
get  turned  out  of  my  room,  and  if  my  pocketbook  is  full 
I  don't  think  of  young  Baker — so  you  see " 

"Who  is  he?"  he  demanded  peremptorily. 

"Oh,  just  a  young  man  we  used  to  know." 

"We?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  briefly,  and  turned  to  the  win- 
dow. She  was  trying  to  make  herself  tell  him  just  what 
"we"  meant.  There  would  never  come  a  better  oppor- 
tunity, and  it  was  the  fair  thing  to  do,  but  she  was  so 
reluctant  to  bring  a  disturbing  element  into  a  friendship 
that  had  come  to  mean  so  much  to  her. 

"Was  he  some  one  that  you  cared  for?"  Hubbard 
asked. 

"Who  ?"  she  said,  not  following  him,  so  intense  was  her 
own  train  of  thought. 

"Young  Baker  whom  you  spoke  of." 

"Oh,  no,  I  scarcely  knew  him.  He  almost  starved  in 
New  York,  then  he  killed  himself  to  get  away.  It  was 
a  hot  night.  I  was  out  of  work  and  depressed,  and  I 
suppose  it  made  an  impression  on  me — but  it's  silly  to 
talk  about." 

"Will  you  come  to  supper  with  me  when  we  get  into 
Butte?"  he  asked,  relieved  that  young  Baker  had  been 
of  no  importance  to  her. 

— 129 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"No,  thank  you,  I  think  I'll  be  ready  to  turn  in  after 
this  long  trip — I'm  tired  now." 

"You  need  food  as  much  as  you  do  sleep.  I  know 
a  great  place — 'grand  eats,'  as  May  says.  You're  no 
grandmother  to  go  to  bed  with  the  chickens." 

"It  will  be  ten  o'clock  before  we  get  in " 

"And  we'll  be  starving " 

"Well,  then,  I'll  come — you  always  win." 

"I  wish  I  could  think  so,"  he  said  seriously. 

Without  answering  she  turned  to  the  window.  The 
country  through  which  they  were  passing  was  new  and 
interesting  to  her.  The  great  mountains  around  which 
the  train  wound  its  long  length,  the  scant  vegetation,  the 
great  boulders,  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  tossed  by 
giants  at  play — all  so  different  from  the  rich,  flat  land 
of  her  girlhood,  different  from  the  tame,  cultivated  scen- 
ery of  the  East.  It  called  for  words  of  big  feeling — 
majesty,  solemnity,  grandeur — it  called  for  high  thoughts 
to  match  it — thoughts  of  courage,  of  patience,  and  of 
hope.  She  was  absorbed  in  the  patterns  her  mind  was 
weaving  about  the  mountains,  until  she  became  conscious 
that  Hubbard's  eyes  were  fastened  on  her.  She  turned 
quickly — the  positive  and  negative  current  met — a  spark 
flashed  out.  Evelyn  shifted  her  eyes  as  a  hot  blush 
spread  over  her  face.  She  rose  and  tried  to  pass  him. 

"Don't  go,"  he  said,  and  his  hand  closed  gently  over 
hers. 

"I  must — I  must "  She  withdrew  it  and  hurried 

down  the  aisle. 

The  afternoon  dragged  on.  Twilight  crept  over  the 
mountains,  and  the  car  lamps  were  lighted.  The  train 
was  two  hours  late.  Across  the  aisle  the  Italian  woman 
struggled  with  the  crying  babies ;  at  the  other  end  of  the 
car  some  of  the  players  were  singing  the  latest  popular 
songs.  The  music  jarred  on  Evelyn's  nerves,  and  the 
—130— 


The  Least  Resistance 

sentiment  offended  her  taste  with  its  constant  repetition 
of  "Love  me,  my  baby,  love  me." 

She  was  worn  out  with  the  journey,  and  restless  from 
the  long  confinement  in  the  crowded  car.  She  closed 
her  eyes,  leaned  back  in  her  corner,  wishing  for  silence, 
and  rest,  and,  above  all,  the  comfort  of  a  strong  hand 
closing  about  her  own. 

Then  began  the  old  argument — was  she  to  be  shut  off 
from  everything  because  of  Bob  ?  He  was  living  his  life, 
possibly  with  no  thought  of  her.  He  had  done  every- 
thing to  make  life  impossible  for  her,  and  was  his  shadow 
to  be  over  all  of  her  days?  Was  she  to  be  denied  this 
tenderness  that  was  offered  her,  and  that  she  wanted 
because  she  had  been  unfortunate?  Her  conscience  an- 
swered "No"  to  these  questions. 

But  the  other  man,  Hubbard,  was  it  fair  to  him  ?  She 
was  appealing  to  him,  winning  his  love  with  false  pre- 
tences— the  thing  he  was  offering  was  his  best — his  eyes 
said  that,  his  every  act  confirmed  it.  She  knew  instinc- 
tively that  his  attitude  would  have  been  different  had  he 
known  that  she  was  a  married  woman.  And  she  didn't 
want  his  attitude  changed — she  wanted  it  the  same — in- 
tensified. She  wanted  all  of  the  comfort  and  strength 
that  could  come  from  the  gentleness  and  power  of  the 
man.  It  was  a  thoroughly  selfish  emotion;  she  had  no 
thought  of  giving  out  anything  in  return — she  was,  in 
reality,  too  exhausted  to  give  out  much. 

These  questions  and  thoughts  and  desires  worked  in 
her  tired  brain  as  the  train  wound  up  the  mountain  and 
dipped  again  into  the  Copper  City. 

The  weary  troupers  got  together  their  belongings  and 
hurried  from  the  train.  As  Evelyn  was  ready  to  step 
off  she  saw  Hub  with  outstretched  hand  waiting  to  help 
her.  She  took  it  and  without  protest  allowed  him  to 
guide  her  to  a  waiting  taxicab. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  to  a  nice  quiet  hotel — run  by 

—131— 


The  Least  Resistance 

some  old  friends  of  mine.  You'll  be  comfortable  there — • 
away  from  the  others.  Mack's  going  there  too,"  he  added 
hastily,  lest  she  misunderstand  him. 

It  was  Evelyn's  first  ride  in  a  taxicab,  and  as  she 
leaned  back  in  her  corner  she  thought  how  much  pleas- 
anter  they  were  than  a  crowded,  jolting  street  car. 
What  a  wonderful  thing  money  was — how  comfortable 
and  smooth  it  made  life. 

They  rode  in  silence  up  the  hilly  streets  to  the  hotel, 
a  quiet,  refined  place,  different  from  the  usual  theatrical 
hotel.  They  were  received  cordially,  and  Evelyn  assigned 
to  a  large,  pleasant  room  that  looked  out  over  the  city 
to  the  sombre  mountains  beyond. 

"In  half  an  hour  I'll  come  for  you  to  go  to  supper," 
Hub  said. 

"But  it  is  so  late " 

"But  you  must  eat " 

"Well,  I'll  be  ready  in  half  an  hour,"  she  said  with  a 
smile. 

The  half  hour  was  given  to  a  vigorous  attack  on  train 
dirt,  and  when  Hubbard  called  for  her,  Evelyn  was  clean 
and  sweet  in  a  fresh  blouse  and  a  well-brushed  suit. 

The  supper  passed  quietly,  both  were  occupied  with 
their  own  thoughts.  She  troubled  and  puzzled  him,  and 
filled  him  with  a  passionate  desire  to  serve  her.  He  had 
never  tried  to  define  her  charm  for  him — other  girls  were 
prettier,  many  had  made  more  effort  to  please — she  made 
none  at  all.  She  talked  little — he  knew  nothing  of  her 
history — but,  whatever  her  appeal,  she  had  struck  and 
fastened  herself  in  the  unexplored  depths  of  his  nature. 
Since  he  had  known  her  had  come  his  first  desire  to 
make  his  life  something  better  than  a  mere  tramp's 
existence,  to  give  it  shape  and  purpose — to  make  it  a 
thing  worth  offering  her. 

She  smiled  at  him  across  the  table.  "Now  listen,"  she 
began. 

—132— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"No,  you  listen — this  is  my  party,  and  if  you  say  any- 
thing to  me  about  money  I  am  going  to  drop  you  down 
some  convenient  mine  shaft  on  the  way  home." 

"Now,  please,  it  isn't  fair,  and  it  makes  me  unhappy." 

"Didn't  I  ask  you  to  come  out  to  supper?"  Hubbard 
asked. 

"Yes,  but  you  are  always  paying,  and  I  don't  want  you 
to." 

"I  won't  have  it,  and  I  won't  talk  about  it,"  he  said 
with  the  irritability  that  came  over  him  when  she  wouldn't 
let  him  do  for  her.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
they  finished  the  supper  in  silence.  They  returned  to  the 
hotel,  and  he  saw  her  to  her  door. 

"I'm  sorry ;  I  didn't  mean  to  spoil  the  party.  You  are 
very  good  to  me.  Thank  you,  Hub."  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  called  him  by  this  name,  and  the  effect  on 
him  was  like  magic. 

"Evelyn — you  must  let  me — that's  all  I  want — just  to 

do  for  you "  He  had  her  hand  in  his ;  he  drew  her 

gently  to  him,  one  arm  slipped  about  her  waist,  the  other 
lifted  her  face  to  his — their  lips  met  in  a  long  kiss. 
Evelyn  felt  herself  crushed  against  him;  she  seemed  to 
lose  her  identity — to  become  a  part  of  him. 

The  sound  of  a  door,  slammed  at  the  other  end  of  the 
hall,  brought  her  to  a  realisation  of  her  position.  "Let 
me  go "  she  whispered. 

His  hold  relaxed.  "Good  night — my  love  girl — good 
night." 

She  stood  for  a  moment,  leaning  against  the  door, 
watching  him  down  the  hall.  When  he  was  out  of  sight, 
she  turned  into  her  room,  switched  on  the  lights.  She 
sought  her  old  confidant — her  own  face  in  the  mirror. 
This  time,  brilliant  eyes  and  crimson  cheeks  and  red,  red 
lips  looked  out  at  her,  and  the  reflected  face  broke  into 
a  radiant  smile  in  answer  to  her,  "I'm  happy — I  don't 
care,  I'm  happy!" 

—133— 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

THIS  happiness  lasted ;  there  was  no  reaction  from  it, 
and  when,  at  their  next  meeting,  he  drew  her  into 
a  close  embrace  she  made  no  protest.  She  was  passive 
in  his  arms,  her  face  lifted  to  his — the  eyes  closed,  the 
invitation  on  the  lips. 

He  accepted  it  eagerly,  reverently,  and  it  was  this  lat- 
ter quality  that  pervaded  all  his  thought  and  feeling  for 
her.  He  had  known  life  in  the  rough;  his  associates 
since  he  left  the  home  in  Tennessee  had  been  coarse 
men,  and  oftener  coarser  women,  but  he  kept  himself  free 
of  their  influence — his  mental  and  physical  health  had 
always  made  depravity  and  vice  abhorrent  to  him,  and 
the  strong  strain  of  ideality  in  his  make-up  had  saved 
him  from  sinking  into  the  commonplace.  He  felt  now 
that  he  had  waited  all  of  his  life  for  Evelyn.  Her  refine- 
ment and  aloofness  gripped  his  imagination  and  stirred 
all  the  latent  chivalry  in  him.  He  loved  her  passionately, 
but  desire  never  crept  into  his  mind,  filled  as  it  was  with 
a  high  joy  and  devotion. 

Had  his  love  been  more  selfish,  made  more  demands, 
Evelyn  would  have  been  less  acquiescent,  but  in  the  se- 
curity and  comfort  that  he  offered  she  knew  the  first  real 
happiness  of  her  womanhood,  and  with  her  old  faculty 
for  drifting  with  the  tide,  she  was  borne  swiftly  through 
the  days. 

Out  of  Canada  they  had  dipped  again  into  the  States, 
through  the  big  cities  of  the  Northwest,  then  again  into 
the  Dominion,  going  by  boat  from  Seattle  to  Vancouver. 

They  sat  on  the  upper  deck  until  midnight.  The  full 
summer  moon  casting  a  golden  shimmer  on  the  water  that 
—134— 


The  Least  Resistance 

broke  in  a  soothing  swish  as  the  boat  cut  her  way 
through ;  little  sprays  blowing  up  struck  their  faces  like 
many,  tiny,  warm  kisses.  His  arm  went  about  her,  her 
head  drooped  on  his  shoulder,  one  hand  lay  crumpled  in 
his.  She  was  relaxed  in  body,  at  peace  in  mind — this 
was  what  she  had  always  wanted,  this  quiet,  this  rest. 

"I  wish  it  could  be  like  this  always,"  she  said  wist- 
fully. 

"It  can,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear. 

"Things  never  last." 

"Where  did  you  ever  learn  to  be  such  an  awful  little 
pessimist?"  he  asked. 

"On  the  stage,"  she  answered. 

"You  aren't  very  keen  about  the  stage,  are  you,  Love- 
Girl?" 

"No,  not  very." 

"How  did  you  ever  happen  to  get  into  this  business  ?" 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  asked  her  any  question 
about  her  past. 

"Necessity — I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it — the  night  is 

too  beautiful,  and "  To  divert  his  mind  she  turned 

her  head  so  that  her  lips  touched  his  cheek.  He  drew 
her  close  in  a  swift,  strong  embrace. 

"I  don't  like  to  have  you  doing  it — acting,  I  mean ; 
you  don't  belong  to  the  game.  Don't  you  think  you 
would  like  the  plantation  if  I  made  you  a  wonderful 
garden  there?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly. 

"You  love  me — a  little — don't  you?" 

"One  might  think  so  if  they  saw  us." 

"But " 

"Now — now "  she  said,  drawing  herself  away  from 

him  so  that  she  could  smile  up  into  his  eyes,  "don't  be 
greedy.  I  give  you  all  my  valuable  time  and  attention, 
and  I'm  a  very  good  girl.  I  didn't  go  to  dinner  last  night 

—135— 


The  Least  Resistance 

with  Todd  Orr,  even  when  he  had  on  his  cloth  of  gold 
waistcoat." 

"He  asked  you?" 

"He  did." 

"Well " 

"Well  what?" 

"Of  all  the  nerve!  You  wouldn't  go,  would  you — 
ever?  It  isn't  just  jealousy,  but  things  I  can't  explain 
_why " 

"He  isn't  good  enough  to  sit  at  the  table  with  angel 
Evelyn!" 

"You  little  devil,"  he  said,  seizing  her  hands  and  kiss- 
ing them.  "But  you  are  right,  no  man  is,  certainly  not 
any  of  us  troupers — I'm  going  to  get  out  and  take  you 
with  me." 

Evelyn  was  spared  an  answer  by  the  appearance  of 
June  Divine,  who  seated  herself  in  a  chair  opposite  them 
and  broke  into  violent  weeping. 

"He  promised  me  he  wouldn't,"  she  gasped  out  be- 
tween sobs,  "and  you  ought  to  see  him — I  caught  him 
spooning  with  a  peroxided  dame." 

"Oh,  well,  don't  you  care,  June,  there  are  lots  of  men 
in  the  world,"  Hub  said  cheerfully. 

"Care?  Me,  for  that  English  pup?  But  it's  enough 
to  make  any  girl  sore — these  men  are  a  fine  lot!  What 
do  you  think,  yesterday  I  gave  him  a  present,  a  fifty- 
dollar  diamond  stickpin,  and  to-night  he's  flirting  with 
a  bleached " 

"Never  mind,  June,"  Hubbard  cut  in,  anxious  to  spare 
Evelyn  a  stream  of  June's  picturesque  language.  "I 
guess  Orr  doesn't  mean  anything,  and  maybe  you  are 
mistaken " 

"Not  a  chance;  but  I'm  going  to  fix  him;  I'm  going 

right  up  to  him,  and  right  before  that  dame  I'm  going 

to  ask  him  to  gimme  my  pin  back — the  stingy  pup,  that'll 

make  him  squirm.    Wasn't  I  the  fool  to  spend  my  money 

—136— 


The  Least  Resistance 

on  him?  Why,  if  he  spends  ten  cents  on  me  he  expects 
me  to  be  grateful !  He  loves  me,  but  he  spends  his  money 
on  himself!" 

Hubbard  broke  into  a  laugh  at  this  last  outburst. 
"That's  a  good  one,  June;  you  ought  to  put  that  in  the 
act." 

"That's  all  right ;  I'm  no  fool ;  I  can  see — and  I  know 
just  how  good  these  English  guys  are,  but  I'll  fix  Mr. 
Todd  Orr."  And,  fired  by  this  determination,  she 
flounced  away  to  bring  about  the  complete  humiliation  of 
Todd  Orr. 

"The  poor  thing,"  Evelyn  said. 

"She  is  a  crazy  thing — a  good-natured  girl  until  she 
is  jealous — now  you  see  one  of  the  reasons  I  didn't  want 
you  to  go  out  with  Orr." 

"Just  think  what  June,  would  have  done  to  me !  My, 
how  old  and  placid  we  seem  after  June's  outburst," 
Evelyn  said  with  a  laugh. 

"I  hear  the  plantation  calling  us,"  he  answered. 

"And  I  hear  sleep  calling  me,  and  I  must  say  good 
night." 

He  let  her  go  reluctantly,  but  she  was  anxious  to  get 
away  from  a  conversation  that  would  make  a  confession 
on  her  part  a  matter  of  honour  and  necessity. 

Evelyn's  light  was  out,  and  the  sea  air  blowing  through 
the  shutter,  fanning  her  to  sleep,  when  a  loud  knock  at 
her  door  startled  her. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"It's  me,"  answered  a  woman's  voice. 

Evelyn  switched  on  the  light  and  opened  the  door  to 
admit  June,  who  held  aloft  the  scarf  pin ! 

"I  got  it !"  she  cried  triumphantly.  "I  took  it  away — 
I  made  him  feel  like  two  cents !"  June  was  without  her 
coat,  and  her  lips  were  blue  from  the  chill  of  the  night ; 
her  wind-blown  hair  fell  over  her  eyes,  swollen  with 
tears,  and  flaming  now  with  anger  and  triumph. 

—137— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Oh,  June "  was  all  Evelyn  could  find  to  say. 

"Never  mind,  I  showed  him  up.  I  snatched  it  off  him 
right  before  that  peroxided  dame,  and  gee,  she  was 
scared,  and  she  was  right  to  be  scared,  for  it  was  just 
about  her  time  to  go  overboard !" 

"But  June "  Evelyn  said  again,  trying  to  think  of 

something  that  would  calm  this  outraged,  passionate, 
primitive  girl.  "I'm  glad  you  got  it,  but  couldn't  you 
have  waited  until  to-morrow?" 

"Why  should  I  wait?  Why  should  I  let  him  make  a 
fool  of  me?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  spend  my  time 
and  money  on  a  guy  that  flirts  with  every  skirt  that 
passes  by?  Ain't  I  been  true  to  him,  ain't  I  refused  to 
go  out  with  the  Dancing  Dudes  every  time  they  asked 
me?  I  did  have  a  drink  to-night  with  Blackie,  but  that 
was  just  because  I  saw  Todd  with  that  dame !" 

"How  long  have  you  known  him  ?"  Evelyn  asked,  push- 
ing a  stool  towards  her. 

"Since  Cincinnati — and  I've  been  true  to  him  every 
minute — and  I've  had  plenty  of  chances — I  ain't  no  back 
number,  whatever  he  thinks — I  know  a  swell  fellow  in 
Portland !  You  just  wait.  I'll  show  Mr.  Todd  Orr  that 
he  can't  throw  me  down  and  pick  me  up !" 

She  shook  her  head  defiantly.  With  her  superb  figure, 
long  black  hair,  and  flashing  eyes,  she  was  far  from  a 
back  number. 

"But  men  are  all  alike,"  she  went  on;  "they  like  the 
fun  of  winning  you,  and  the  fun  of  throwing  you — I 
don't  think  Hub  is  like  that — he  is  some  man,  and  you 
are  a  lucky  girl.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  girls  after  him — 
we  done  this  circuit  with  him  once  before,  and  I  never 
saw  him  look  at  a  dame,  and  now  I  guess  he  don't  gam- 
ble any  more.  But  that  English  pup,  he's  a  fine  one! 
Well,  I've  got  my  pin  and  he  can —  She  paused,  the 
sound  of  a  low  whistle  floated  in  through  the  shutters. 


The  Least  Resistance 

"There  he  is  now,"  she  said  with  a  contemptuous  shrug, 
"calling  me — well " 

Again  the  long,  low,  meaning  whistle  came.  June  rose 
from  the  stool,  and  at  the  third  whistle  a  smile  broke 
over  her  face.  She  moved  to  the  shutters  and  sent  forth 
an  answering  whistle. 

"I'll  just  see  what  he  wants,"  she  explained  as  she 
opened  the  door  and  vanished  quickly  from  Evelyn's 
sight. 

Evelyn  waited  for  the  next  act  of  the  drama.  She 
heard  Orr's  cough  outside  her  window,  and  then  the 
hurried  steps  of  June  going  to  him. 

"Hello,  June,"  he  said  pleasantly,  and  with  no  touch 
of  resentment. 

"You — you've  got  the  nerve!" 

"Now,  forget  it — that  was  just  a  little  )astime,  dear; 
didn't  mean  a  thing;  a  little  joke  to  make  you  jealous. 
Give  us  a  kiss — that's  an  old  dear." 

For  answer  there  was  a  gasp,  a  break  between  a  sob 
and  a  cry  of  joy,  then  the  sound  of  a  kiss,  and  a  long 
silence,  followed  by  retreating  footsteps. 

The  next  morning,  as  they  left  the  boat,  Evelyn  saw 
that  Todd  was  wearing  the  diamond  scarf  pin,  and  that 
June  was  radiant  by  his  side. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

THEY  spent  a  week  in  Vancouver,  and  a  week  in  that 
little  piece  of  Old  England,  Victoria.  Here  they 
had  daily  visits  from  sleek  Chinamen  trying  to  sell  elab- 
orately embroidered  kimonos,  oriental  laces  and  per- 
fumes to  the  theatrical  ladies.  Fictitious  sailors  brought 
pieces  of  goods,  supposedly  from  the  looms  of  England 
and  Scotland,  which  they,  having  brought  over  direct, 
would  sell  to  the  American  gentlemen  cheap — almost  for 
a  song,  and  the  said  gentlemen,  being  remarkably  poor 
judges  of  woollens  and  weaves,  and  having  heard  a  great 
deal  of  the  superiority  of  English  stuff,  bought  liberally 
from  the  oily  tongued  salesmen,  all  save  Todd  Orr, 
whose  father  dealt  in  the  stuff  in  Glasgow.  But  he  held 
his  peace  and  let  the  Americans  get  fleeced. 

"They  think  it  can't  be  done,"  he  said  to  his  dresser, 
"but  they  take  the  hook  like  fish — 'suckers'  is  right!" 

May  and  June  Divine  invested  in  kimonos  of  vivid 
hues  and  elaborate  designs — dragons  rampant  on  fields 
of  red  and  blue.  Evelyn  debated  a  long  time  over  a 
pale  lavender  embroidered  in  white  chrysanthemums, 
but  the  eight  dollars  necessary  for  the  purchase  meant  a 
whole  week's  living  in  New  York,  and  this  thought 
helped  her  to  resist  the  temptation. 

"Besides,  my  dear,"  June  said  consolingly,  "lavender 
is  a  little  pale  for  you — you  need  something  to  tone  you 
up." 

"Well  then,  it's  too  bad  you  didn't  buy  the  lavender 
one,"  her  sister  put  in.    "You  need  something  to  tone  you 
down — you  are  making  a  complete  and  blooming  ass  of 
yourself  these  days." 
— 140 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Is  that  so?"  June  asked,  somewhat  taken  aback  by 
this  sudden  attack. 

"Yes,  that's  so — I  saw  you  give  that  Chink  five  dollars 
for  those  fancy  handkerchiefs — yes,  and  I  heard  that 
English  simp  say  how  much  he  'fancied'  them,  and  you 
heard  him  too,  and  so  you  throw  away  your  cash  to 
make  a  hit  with  him — my,  you're  a  fool !" 

"Well,  I  may  be  foolish,  but  I  haven't  lost  fifty  dollars 
at  poker  this  season  like  some  people  that  are  so  smart," 
June  said. 

"Oh,  I'll  get  that  back,  but  you  won't  get  yours  back, 
and  you  are  spending  it  on  a  bum  sport  that  will  leave 
you  flat  when  the  season's  over  and  he's  off  to  dear  old 
England." 

It  was  the  truth,  and  bitter,  and  June  winced  under  it, 
but  she  came  back  gamely. 

"We'll  see  about  that." 

The  two  girls  were  in  Evelyn's  dressing  room  between 
the  second  and  third  show,  and,  as  usual,  when  they 
came  together  these  days  it  was  to  renew  the  war  over 
Todd  Orr.  May  disapproved  of  the  singing  Beau  Brum- 
mel  and  aired  her  disapproval  in  and  out  of  season. 
From  her  knowledge  of  men  of  their  world,  she  knew 
that  this  affair,  serious  and  important  to  June,  was  a 
thing  of  fleeting  interest  to  Orr.  He  and  she  had  several 
times  clashed  over  his  treatment  of  her  young  sister. 

"I  call  him  every  time  he  tries  to  put  one  over  on  the 
kid,"  she  told  Evelyn,  "but  the  poor  simp,  she  can't  see 
that  he  don't  care  a  whoop  for  her.  Why,  he  goes  out 
with  any  dame  he  takes  a  fancy  to.  And  it  ain't  as  if 
June  was  a  lemon — she's  turned  down  some  swell  fellows 
in  her  time,  and  now  she  stands  for  anything  from  the 
English  gink.  It  makes  me  sick !" 

May  herself  had  no  attachments;  she  was  too  busy 
thinking  about  her  act,  practising  her  dancing,  looking 
up  new  jokes,  studying  comedy  effects,  and  planning  for 

—141— 


The  Least  Resistance 

the  next  year.  She  was  a  clever  eccentric  comedienne 
with  a  broad,  low  method  and  abounding  vitality.  The 
audiences  liked  her,  the  people  who  worked  with  her  liked 
her,  and  the  men  on  the  bill,  in  the  face  of  the  salary 
that  she  drew,  treated  her  as  one  of  themselves.  She 
smoked,  drank,  played  poker  with  them,  and  kept  herself 
free  of  sentimental  entanglements. 

"It  ain't  that  I  don't  like  men,"  she  explained  to 
Evelyn,  "but  I  was  too  busy  when  I  was  sweet  and 
twenty,  and  now  I  get  along  so  well  by  myself  they  seem 
kinder  useless,  and  then  I've  always  had  the  kid  to  think 
about,  and  now — gee,  this  Todd  thing  makes  me  good 
and  sore!" 

All  talk  wound  back  to  the  indiscretion  of  June.  May 
was  seven  years  older  than  her  sister  and  had  been  work- 
ing ever  since  she  was  fourteen,  when  her  mother  died, 
leaving  her  to  look  after  herself  and  June.  The  trust 
left  to  her  she  fulfilled  faithfully,  working  winter  and 
summer  in  burlesque  shows  and  small-time  vaudeville. 
Three  years  ago  she  had  broken  June  into  the  act,  and 
since  then  they  had  been  making  money  and  some  reputa- 
tion, for  June's  youth  and  beauty  were  excellent  foils  for 
May's  eccentric  comedy.  The  first  break  between  them 
came  with  the  advent  of  Todd  Orr,  and  now  there  were 
almost  daily  stormy  quarrels,  followed  by  emotional 
reconciliations,  but  through  it  all  June  held  on  to  Todd, 
that  is,  when  he  allowed  himself  to  be  held.  He  was 
easily  bored,  inordinately  vain,  and  had  a  natural  aver- 
sion to  any  binding  tie,  therefore  June's  days  were  full 
of  "drama,"  as  Hubbard  expressed  it  to  Evelyn. 

These  girls,  with  their  crudities,  the  fineness  under  the 
crudities,  their  efficiency,  their  entire  lack  of  culture, 
their  first-hand  knowledge  of  life,  made  them  of  never- 
ending  interest  to  Evelyn,  and  her  sympathy  and  interest 
drew  them  to  "Peggy,"  as  they  called  her  after  her  part 
in  the  act.  They  sought  her  individually  to  confide  their 
— 142 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

troubles,  and  together  that  she  might  referee  their  quar- 
rels. 

"Look  here,  Peggy,"  May  said  one  night  as  she  lounged 
about  the  dressing  room,  "June  says  she  spilled  some- 
thing to  you  about  Hub's  gambling.  She's  a  careless 
kid.  I  hope  she  didn't  make  trouble." 

"No.     Why  should  she?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Well,  I  guess  you  aren't  keen  about  having  him  that 
way,  are  you" 


'Why  no,  but- 


"Don't  try  to  stall  with  me,  Peggy,  I've  been  on  this 
revolving  orange  too  long  not  to  know  a  thing  or  two." 
May,  along  with  the  others,  took  it  for  granted  that  it 
was  a  very  serious  affair  beween  Hubbard  and  Evelyn, 
and  to  these  people,  whether  the  affair  was  temporary  or 
permanent,  the  lovers  held  sway  over  each  other's  habits, 
as  well  as  hearts,  and  sometimes  pocketbooks. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  stall,"  Evelyn  declared,  "but  I  never 
thought  again  of  what  June  said." 

"Well,  it  is  all  right  then.  Hub  used  to  play  with  us 
when  we  went  over  this  circuit  before,  but,  just  like  the 
rest  of  us,  not  for  big  stakes — so  don't  you  worry." 

"I  won't,"  Evelyn  assured  her  with  a  smile  about  her 
mouth. 

"You  know,  a  fellow  has  got  to  have  a  bit  of  amuse- 
ment, and  when  there's  no  girl  about  that  he's  strong  for, 
why  he's  going  to  run  around  with  women  or  play  cards 
or  drink — and  I  guess  of  the  lot  a  little  poker  is  the 
pick.  Gee !"  she  cried,  jumping  up,  "there's  my  music — 
why  I  didn't  know  the  second  show  had  started!" 

Left  to  herself  Evelyn  smoothed  her  make-up,  took 
down  the  Peggy  dress  from  the  wall,  and  made  ready 
for  "The  Act."  And  all  the  while  she  was  thinking  of 
what  May  had  said,  and  how  impossible  it  would  have 
been  to  make  her  understand  that  all  she  asked  of  Hub 
was  the  pleasure  of  his  companionship,  the  comfort  of 

—143— 


The  Least  Resistance 

his  love.  She  had  no  desire  to  make  him  over;  no  wish 
to  penetrate  to  the  very  core  of  his  being,  to  possess  his 
past,  and  present  and  future — she  wanted  things  as  they 
were.  Had  she  been  inclined  to  explain,  and  capable  of 
unwrapping  her  emotions  and  desires,  the  subtleties  would 
have  escaped  May,  and  her  comment  would  have  been, 
"Why,  you're  a  female  Orr;  you  want  to  get,  and  not 
give !"  And  Evelyn  would  have  tumbled  from  her  pedes- 
tal. She  knew  this,  and  her  liking  for  the  pedestal,  as 
well  as  her  natural  reticence,  made  her  hold  her  peace. 

As  they  walked  to  the  hotel  after  the  performance  she 
repeated  the  conversation  to  Hubbard. 

"May  was  trying  to  square  me,  but  I  guess  June  was 
nearer  right." 

"You,  Hub;  why  I  can't  imagine  you  doing  anything 
you  shouldn't." 

"My,  do  I  seem  that  good?  I  am  afraid  it  isn't  so. 
I've  played  everything  from  craps  in  the  back  of  a  bum 
saloon  to  the  game  at  Monte  Carlo,  and  I'm  thirty,  and 
broke,  and  a  bum,  and  that's  the  answer !  But  no  more — 
not  since  Butte,  and  never  again."  He  took  her  arm,  and 
held  it  close. 

"But  you  mustn't,  Hub ;  you  mustn't,"  she  said  breath- 
lessly. 

"Why— what?"  he  asked. 

"Care  too  much — I'm  not  worth  it." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?  You  are  the  sweetest,  the  whit- 
est  " 

"  "No,  no  please " 

"All  right."  He  dropped  her  arm,  and  they  walked 
on  in  silence.  She  knew  that  he  was  hurt.  He  was  so 
abnormally  sensitive  where  she  was  concerned,  so  acutely 
aware  of  the  great  good  fortune  that  had  come  to  him  in 
her  preference,  that  this  last  rebuff  from  her  stabbed  to 
the  quick. 

"Silly  you,"  she  said  at  last  to  break  the  long  pause,  "I 
—144— 


The  Least  Resistance 

didn't  mean  anything,  only  I'm  so  afraid  that  you  are 
going  to  be  terribly  disappointed  in  me  some  day." 

"How  could  I  be?" 

"You  can't  know  everything " 

"Well,  I'll  take  a  chance — why,  how  could  I  be — you 
are — you !" 

He  bade  her  good  night  with  all  clear  between  them, 
but  the  next  afternoon  at  the  theatre  he  came  into  her 
dressing  room  with  a  new  perplexity  in  his  heart. 

"You  didn't  mean  anything  really  last  night,  did  you  ?" 

"Only  what  I  said — now  Hub "  she  said,  coming 

to  him. 

"But," — his  arms  went  about  her,  and  one  hand  raised 
her  face  to  his,  "but  you  do  love  me — just  a  little  bit?" 

"Now " 

"Oh,  but  I  want  to  know — don't  you  love  me  a  little, 
you've  never  said?"  he  implored. 

"And  only  words  will  satisfy  you  ?" 

"I  want  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  Hub,  that  is  just  it— I  like  to  be 
here."  She  smiled  at  him  and  his  arms  tightened  about 
her.  "I'm  happy  with  you — happier  than  I've  been  since 
I  was  a  child,  but  I  don't  know  that  I  am  capable  of 
love" — the  words  "any  more"  were  on  her  lips,  but  she 
checked  them.  She  had  not  the  courage  for  the  con- 
fession that  they  would  make  obligatory. 

At  first  it  had  been  for  her  own  convenience  that  she 
kept  her  past  a  secret ;  now  it  was  the  effect  that  it  would 
have  on  Hubbard.  He  treated  her  as  innocent,  virginal — 
to  know  that  she  had  been  married  would  shock  him ;  to 
know  that  she  was  still  married — that  a  few  months  ago 
she  was  Bob's  wife,  and  that  nothing  now  separated  them 
but  her  inclination — she  couldn't  tell  him.  After  a  while 
Fate  would  force  her  to  tell,  but  perhaps  by  that  time 
Hubbard  wouldn't  care  so  much — at  any  rate,  she  would 
wait. 

—145— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Oh,  Hub,"  she  said  at  last,  "don't  ask  me  questions 
all  the  time.  I'm  happy — aren't  you?"  Her  cool  lips 
brushed  his  cheek.  A  convulsive  movement  of  his  big 
body  answered  her  kiss,  and  told  her  that  his  happiness 
was  not  complete,  but  she  pretended  not  to  understand. 

Time  swept  them  on  into  September,  and  California. 
They  "laid  off"  a  week  in  San  Francisco,  which  gave 
them  time  to  explore  the  picturesque  city.  Evelyn  saw 
Chinatown,  ate  queer  dishes  in  queerer  restaurants,  in 
the  company  of  McCarthy  and  Hubbard  had  a  peep  at 
the  night  life  of  the  Barbary  Coast,  and  for  a  contrast 
lunched  at  the  Cliff  House,  and  saw  the  sun  go  down 
over  the  Golden  Gate.  Daily  hundreds  of  new  impres- 
sions registered  in  her  mind ;  she  felt  herself  waking  up, 
more  interested,  more  interesting — no  touch  now  of  the 
"creeping  paralysis." 

They  journeyed  to  Los  Angeles,  then  to  golden  San 
Diego,  and  in  a  week  that  was  bright  with  joy  and  warm 
with  security,  Fate  struck  the  blow  that  shattered  her 
peace  and  brought  her  once  again  face  to  face  with 
reality. 

All  through  the  last  performance  of  "The  Act"  on 
Thursday  night  she  noticed  that  McCarthy  was  having 
trouble  with  his  breathing,  that  he  gasped  often,  and  held 
on  to  the  chair  and  table  more  than  was  his  custom.  He 
omitted  all  of  his  comedy  steps,  and  there  was  no  wait- 
ing for  laughs,  no  warming  up  to  the  audience.  Evelyn 
watched  him  anxiously,  but  without  any  feeling  of  panic, 
and  she  was  totally  unprepared  for  the  scene  that  fol- 
lowed the  dropping  of  the  curtain. 

The  old  man  sank  in  a  chair  and  called  faintly : 

"Hub."    Hubbard  rushed  to  him.    "I'm  going — get  a 

doctor."    His  breath  was  coming  in  short  gasps,  the  body 

collapsing,  less  able  each  moment  to  help  the  oppressed 

lungs.    Hubbard  lifted  him  in  his  arms  as  though  he  had 

— 146 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

been  a  baby  and  bore  him  to  his  dressing  room.  The 
stage  manager  sent  a  hurried  call  for  a  doctor.  But  he 
came  too  late.  McCarthy  died  ten  minutes  after  the  fall 
of  the  curtain.  He  breathed  his  last  in  the  arms  of 
Hubbard,  while  the  raucous  voices  of  the  Three  Dudes 
in  their  opening  number  flooded  the  theatre  with  sound. 

There  was  intense,  restrained  excitement  behind  the 
scenes,  but  the  performance  went  on  without  a  hitch.  At 
Hubbard's  request  May  Divine  went  with  Evelyn  to  the 
hotel.  He  had  many  things  to  attend  to,  and  he  wanted 
her  looked  after. 

"Look  out  for  her;  she  isn't  strong,  and  this  is  a 
shock " 

"Sure,  Hub,  I'll  stay  with  her,  the  poor  kiddie,"  May 
answered,  and  went  in  to  help  Evelyn  dress  for  the 
street. 

On  the  way  to  the  hotel  neither  spoke.  Once  in  the 
room  she  let  May  take  off  her  hat  and  coat,  and  thanked 
her  with  a  little  nod  and  faint  smile. 

"Please  don't  stay  up  with  me,  May,"  she  begged. 
"I'm  all  right,  and  if  I  need  you  I'll  come  to  you." 

"You  sure  you  won't  be  afraid " 

"Afraid?    No— not  of  death." 

"Of  course,  you  aren't.  I  didn't  mean  that — I  meant 
you  might  be  lonely,  or " 

"No,  I  won't,"  Evelyn  insisted.  "I'll  come  to  you 
if  I  am,  I  promise." 

"All  right  now,  I'm  just  two  doors  away,  and  any 
time."  With  an  affectionate  pat  on  the  shoulder,  May 
went  out,  leaving  Evelyn  to  herself. 

It  was  a  relief  to  be  alone.  She  went  to  the  window, 
and  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  out  at  the  night.  She 
could  see  the  theatre ;  she  watched  the  crowds  leave,  saw 
the  electric  sign  go  out ;  some  time  later  a  long,  black  wagon 
arrived;  a  group  of  figures  came  from  the  stage  en- 

—147— 


The  Least  Resistance 

trance  and  stood  about  the  wagon.    Evelyn  turned  from 
the  window. 

She  looked  about  her  room;  a  few  hours  ago  it  had 
been  a  pleasant  place,  with  its  three  windows  and  pretty 
furniture.  Her  toilet  things  were  on  the  dresser,  a 
few  pictures  made  it  homelike,  and  a  vase  of  flowers  on 
the  table  added  fragrance.  She  had  been  so  happy! 
What  a  hideous  thing  life  was  with  its  long,  slow  griefs, 
and  sudden  blows!  Death  was  not  the  thing  to  be 
afraid  of;  it  was  life,  life  that  was  full  of  terror. 

After  a  while  she  turned  out  the  light  and  tried  to 
sleep,  but  in  the  dark  her  courage  deserted  her.  A 
wild  panic  seized  her — what  would  become  of  her  now? 
New  York  again,  the  grind  to  begin  all  over — more  aw- 
ful now  after  the  happiness  she  had  known.  She  got 
up,  and  moved  restlessly  about  the  room.  Oh!  to  be 
able  to  go  out,  to  walk,  and  walk  until  she  was  so  tired 
that  she  couldn't  think.  But  she  couldn't  do  that,  she 
must  wait,  all  her  life  she  must  just  wait ! 

Daylight  found  her  waiting,  sitting  by  the  window, 
staring  with  aching  eyes  at  the  young  dawn.  She  was 
in  the  same  position  several  hours  later  when  Hub- 
bard  knocked  at  her  door. 

"Are  you  ready  to  come  out?"  he  asked. 

"In  a  few  minutes,"  she  answered. 

"I'll  wait,  don't  hurry." 

"Now  I've  got  to  tell  him,"  she  said  to  herself  as 
she  hurried  through  her  dressing.  "I've  got  to  tell  him, 
and,  oh,  God !  let  him  forgive  me."  But  it  was  a  prayer 
uttered  as  all  her  prayers  were,  without  hope  of  an 
answer. 

He  met  her  with  a  grave,  anxious  face.    "No  sleep?" 

"Not  much — nor  you?" 

"That  doesn't  matter,   but  I   wish  you  could   have 
rested,  you  poor  little  thing." 
•—148— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"It's  all  right,"  she  cut  in  nervously.  "Where  is 
he?" 

"Sending  him  back  to  his  old  home  in  Iowa;  he  al- 
ways told  me  to  do  that — he  has  a  sister  there,  but  let's 
not  talk  about  it." 

"It's  awful — awful,"  she  said  with  pale,  quivering 
lips. 

"Yes,  but  let's  not  think  about  it  now.  Come  on  and 
get  some  coffee." 

But  the  breakfast  was  not  a  success,  and  they  came 
back  to  the  hotel.  At  her  door  she  said:  "Come  in, 
Hub,  and  tell  me  what  is  going  to  happen." 

"Of  course,  the  act  is  closed,"  he  said,  following  her 
into  the  room.  "We  might  get  a  man  and  finish  out 
the  circuit,  I  suppose,  but  there's  only  a  few  weeks 
more  to  play,  so  it  isn't  worth  while.  We've  got  our 
transportation  to  Kansas  City.  Let's  cut  the  business, 
get  married,  and  make  for  the  plantation." 

It  had  come,  she  braced  herself  to  meet  it.  "If  we 
only  could." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked,  taking  her  cold  hands  in  his. 

"We  can't — oh,  I  can't  tell  you  why — you'll  hate  me." 

"Tell  me." 

"Oh,  Hub!  I'm  married  already." 

"You?"  he  asked,  dropping  her  hands  and  looking 
at  her  with  beseeching,  incredulous  eyes. 

"Yes,  but "    She  wanted  to  tell  him  something  of 

her  life,  justify  herself,  but  the  words  wouldn't  come, 
and  he  asked  no  question. 

"Well,  what's  the  answer?"  he  said  at  last. 

"I'm  going  back  to  New  York,"  she  said  wearily. 

He  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  stood  where  the 
night  before  she  had  watched  the  theatre.  "Oh,  God 
— Evelyn!"  And  one  big  hand  covered  his  face. 

"Hub,"  she  said  desperately,  "you  must  forgive  me — 

I  didn't  mean " 

—140— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"It  isn't  that— I— I  can't  talk  about  it.  When  do 
you  want  to  leave?" 

"Soon  as  I  can.    Aren't  you  coming,  too?" 

"No ;  I'm  going  over  to  the  Islands.  See  about  your 
ticket."  He  started  for  the  door. 

"Hub — please "  she  cried  imploringly. 

He  came  to  her,  drew  her  to  him  in  a  close,  passion- 
ately sad  embrace.  She  clung  to  him,  feeling  weak  and 
faint  in  his  arms. 

"If  you  ever  want  me — if  I  ever  have  a  chance,  let 
me  know — the  home  place  will  reach  me." 

"You  won't  forget  me?" 

"Not  in  a  thousand  years."  Their  lips  met  in  a  long 
kiss.  "Good-bye,  Love-girl." 

That  night  he  put  her  on  the  train  to  begin  her  long 
journey  eastward,  and  the  next  day  he  sailed  for 
Honolulu. 


— 150— 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

A  WEEK  later  Evelyn  was  occupying  the  hall  bed- 
room on  the  top  floor  of  a  rooming-house  on  Forty- 
seventh  Street.  It  was  a  small  room  with  drab  walls, 
a  faded  blue  carpet,  an  oak  dresser,  a  table,  a  chair, 
and  in  one  corner  an  improvised  closet  of  red  velvet 
curtains  long  since  discarded  from  the  parlor  below. 
One  window  looked  out  over  back  yards  to  the  rear 
of  the  houses  in  the  next  block — cheerless  within,  un- 
inviting without,  but  the  price  suited,  and  she  decided 
to  stay. 

She  was  worn  out  physically  from  the  long  cross- 
country journey,  and  the  emotional  strain  that  she  had 
been  under  since  McCarthy's  death  left  her  too  weak 
and  depressed  to  face  New  York  with  hope  and  cour- 
age. She  had  expected  to  find  Mary  Leighton  in  town 
— it  was  this  prospect  that  had  drawn  her  to  Mrs. 
Brady's  house,  but  in  answer  to  her  question  the  land- 
lady informed  her  that  Miss  Leighton  had  gone  out  a 
week  ago  with  a  new  melodrama. 

Evelyn  tried  to  rest,  to  prepare  herself  for  the  de- 
scent on  the  managers  and  agents,  but  for  once  her 
emotions  refused  subordination  to  the  dictates  of  her 
practical  mind.  She  could  not  rest,  and  with  her  quiv- 
ering nerves  the  routine  of  work-hunting  was  out  of 
the  question.  She  was  tortured  by  restlessness  and  a 
great  desire  that  drove  her  from  the  cell-like  room  to 
the  freedom  of  the  streets.  She  walked  up  Broadway, 
through  the  Park,  down  Fifth  Avenue,  across  Forty- 
second  Street,  looking  in  every  face,  listening  to  every 
voice  that  spoke,  hoping  against  every  dictate  of  reason 


The  Least  Resistance 

that  she  would  find  Hubbard — that  by  some  chance  he 
had  not  gone  to  Hawaii.  Her  wish  for  him  was  so 
great,  her  need  so  urgent,  that  at  times  she  felt  that  her 
will  was  strong  enough  to  bring  him  across  all  space 
to  answer  that  need. 

Lack  of  food  and  these  long  walks  drove  her  home 
so  exhausted  that  she  reached  the  top  floor  with  diffi- 
culty, but  with  this  exhaustion  of  mind  and  weariness 
of  body  sleep  was  not  a  friendly  spirit. 

The  fourth  night  she  lay  inert  on  her  bed,  and  watched 
with  aching  eyes  the  dawn  break  over  the  world.  A 
light  breeze  blew  in  the  window,  and  the  sparrows 
chirped  under  the  eaves.  She  put  one  hot  hand  over 
her  eyes  to  shut  out  the  light,  the  other  picked  feverishly 
at  the  covering. 

"Oh,  God!  if  I  could  just  sleep  a  little — forget  for 
a  little  while.  I've  got  to  work,  I  can't  go  on  like  this 
— my  money  will  go — oh,  God !  help  me — help  me !"  But 
no  answer  came  to  this  cry,  and  she  rolled  from  one 
side  of  the  bed  to  the  other,  trying  to  find  a  position 
that  would  more  effectually  woo  sleep. 

Unable  to  stand  the  torture  any  longer,  she  sprang 
from  the  bed,  and  staggered  across  the  room  to  the 
chair  that  held  her  clothes.  Her  eagerness  to  get  them 
on  was  delayed  by  her  lack  of  strength.  She  was  grow- 
ing afraid  of  her  condition.  There  were  sudden  flashes 
as  though  she  had  just  waked  from  unconsciousness,  she 
had  frequent  impulses  to  scream — a  leap  from  the  win- 
dow loomed  up  in  her  mind  as  a  possible  escape  from 
her  present  agony. 

She  must  get  to  a  drug  store,  must  get  a  powder  that 
would  bring  sleep.  If  she  could  only  rest,  forget  for 
a  while,  she  would  be  able  to  cope  with  the  situation, 
but  with  this  fire  in  her  veins  and  this  heaviness  in 
the  head  she  could  do  nothing — nothing  but  suffer. 

At  last  she  was  dressed,  and,  snatching  up  her  purse, 


The  Least  Resistance 

passed  out  into  the  dark  hall.  Here  the  young  day  had 
not  penetrated,  and  the  only  light  was  a  faint  gas  jet 
burning  on  the  second  floor.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  peered  down.  It  seemed 
such  a  long  distance  to  the  first  floor,  she  wondered 
how  she  had  ever  gotten  up  here.  Holding  on  to  the 
railing,  she  started  down,  her  strength  going  with  each 
step.  She  reached  the  second  floor,  traversed  the  short 
hall,  and  started  down  the  stairway.  Over  her  head 
the  gas  flickered,  then  darkness,  and  the  roomers  on 
the  second  floor  were  awakened  by  a  scream  and  the 
thud  of  a  body  on  the  landing. 

Two  hours  later  an  ambulance  backed  up  to  Mrs. 
Brady's  door,  and  Evelyn,  unconscious  of  the  world  that 
whirled  about  her,  was  borne  away  to  Dr.  Holt's  pri- 
vate sanitarium.  In  the  delirium  of  fever  she  forgot 
the  sorrows  that  had  worn  her  out,  only  to  be  tortured 
by  imaginary  ones. 

Dr.  Holt  shook  his  head  as  he  bent  over  her  bed. 
"Bad  case,"  he  said  to  the  nurse  who  stood  by.  "Bad, 
bad  heart  action,"  he  repeated. 

"She's  very  young,"  the  nurse  answered. 

"Yes,  but  old  in  life,  a  constitution  undermined  by 
many  hardships,  and  a  nervous  system  too  exhausted 
for  the  last  blow.  Oh,  the  girls  in  that  business — what 
lives — what  lives!"  He  reached  down  and  took  the 
limp,  hot  hand  in  his.  A  low  moan  answered  his  touch. 

Then  random  words,  unconnected,  but  by  which  the 
Doctor  with  his  knowledge  of  girls  of  her  type  and 
occupation  was  able  to  piece  together  a  fairly  coherent 
story  of  her  life.  Friends,  acquaintances,  incidents 
of  the  past  that  her  conscious  mind  had  long  since 
forgotten  came  to  life  in  her  delirium.  She  spoke  to 
her  mother  of  the  blooming  rosebush  in  the  garden;  to 
Hilda  St.  John;  bits  of  talks  with  Mary  were  on  her 


The  Least  Resistance 

lips;  and  she  reminded  Bob  that  he  had  promised  to 
cut  out  Scotch. 

The  nurse  moved  about  with  ice  packs  and  thermome- 
ters— the  Doctor  came  in  every  hour  to  direct  her  work, 
each  time  lifting  Evelyn's  limp,  hot  hand  and  looking 
anxiously,  sadly  down  into  the  glazed  eyes. 

"Got  to  get  that  temperature  down  before  the  day 
is  over."  He  stooped  and  pushed  the  hair  from  the 
burning  forehead  and  felt  again  the  leaping  pulse. 

Some  association  was  touched  in  the  disordered  brain. 
She  seized  his  hand,  stroked  the  back,  ran  out  to  the 
tip  of  each  finger,  then  a  deep  sigh  of  content.  "Hub, 
Hub,"  she  whispered.  She  was  quiet  now,  the  eyes 
closed,  the  parched  lips  relaxed,  and  her  grip  on  the 
Doctor's  hand  loosened. 

Dr.  Holt  looked  across  the  bed  to  the  nurse  and  shook 
his  head  slowly.  "Damn  these  men,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  nurse  answered  with  a  smile.  "Poor  little  thing," 
she  said. 

After  the  first  day  of  delirium  she  sank  into  a  heavy 
stupor,  most  of  the  time  she  slept,  and  Dr.  Holt  wel- 
comed this.  Her  temperature  was  below  the  danger 
point,  and  this  rest  of  mind  and  body  was  the  thing 
that  she  needed.  The  fourth  day  she  opened  her  eyes 
and  looked  about.  She  felt  very  weak,  but  her  brain 
was  clear. 

"Where  am  I?"  she  asked,  and  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice  a  nurse  approached  the  bed. 

"Feel  better  this  morning?" 

"Yes;  have  I  been  ill?" 

"Yes,  a  little,  but  you  are  going  to  be  all  right  now." 

"Where  am  I  now?" 

"In  Dr.  Holt's  sanitarium." 

"How  did  I  get  here?  Oh,  I  remember  now — I  was 
starting  to  the  drug  store — I  couldn't  sleep,  and  then — 
I  was  afraid  of  the  stairs <-" 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Now  you  must  be  a  nice  quiet  girl,  and  I'll  comb 
your  hair,  wash  your  face,  and  then  the  Doctor  will 
come  in,  and  you  can  have  some  breakfast."  And  Miss 
Warner  laid  her  magnetic  fingers  on  Evelyn's  brow 
in  a  soothing  stroke,  and  smiled  down,  until  the  wan 
eyes  smiled  in  return. 

An  hour  later  Dr.  Holt  came  in  to  see.  "Well,  young 
lady,  you  look  fine  this  morning." 

"I'll  be  able  to  get  up  to-morrow,  won't  I,  Doctor?" 

"I  think  not " 

"But  I "  she  began. 

"Now,  no  worrying,  there  has  been  too  much  of  that. 
You  get  well  and  everything  else  will  be  all  right." 

"How  did  I  happen  to  be  here,  Doctor  ?" 

"A  young  woman  who  lives  in  your  house  was  here 
once  with  just  such  a  spell  as  you  have  had  and  she 
called  me  up  and  asked  me  to  bring  you  here,  now 

"Women — women  are  very  good,  and  some  men,  too," 
she  finished  with  a  wistful  smile  at  him. 

"Quite  so — quite  so,"  he  laughed  softly.  "Now  you 
just  rest  and  take  things  easy." 

"I'll  try,  Doctor,  but " 

"No  'buts' — they  wear  out  your  little  body  and  make 
you  old  before  your  time — worry  kills  half  of  us." 

"Sometimes  you  can't  help  it." 

"That  is  what  you  must  learn."  He  left  her,  after 
a  promise  that  she  would  be  "absolutely  cheerful"  until 
his  return. 

It  was  not  a  very  difficult  promise  to  keep  amid  such 
pleasant  surroundings,  and  the  frequent  visits  of  Miss 
Warner  helped  greatly. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Dr.  Holt  came  again,  and  they 
had  a  talk  that  did  her  a  great  deal  of  good.  It  was 
easier  to  talk  to  him  than  to  any  one  she  had  ever  known  ; 
she  was  even  free  enough  to  ask  a  question  that  had 
for  a  long  time  puzzled  her. 

—155— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Doctor,  why  is  it  that  everything  goes  wrong  with 
me?  I  seem  to  be  so  on  the  wrong  track.  I  try,  and 
the  more  I  try  the  worse  it  seems  to  be.  I  left  my 
husband  because  I  couldn't  stand  any  more,  and  I 
thought  things  would  be  better.  If  we  could  only  know 
what  to  do.  I  wouldn't  mind  suffering  if  I  thought 
that  it  was  really  meant  to  be,  but  I  can't  help  feeling 
that  it  is  just  because  I  am  so  stupid  that  I  blunder  all 
of  the  time." 

"Then  we  are  all  stupid,  dear  child.  Men  have  been 
trying  to  answer  such  questions  for  thousands  of  years. 
You  must  keep  on  trying — you'll  work  out  of  the  tragic 
zone.  Your  'luck/  as  they  call  it,  will  change.  You  have 
much  in  your  favour — youth  and  a  fairly  strong  body — 
perhaps  you  haven't  been  careful  of  your  associations — 
we  often  let  those  close  to  us  swamp  us." 

"Yes,  I  know;  I'm  weak,  and  I  should  like  so  to  be 
strong." 

"You  must  fight  for  strength,  you  must  realise  that 
your  happiness  and  strength  come  from  within,  that 
when  you  depend  on  some  one  else  nine  times  out  of 
ten  you  are  going  to  be  disappointed."  He  talked  to 
her  in  this  strain,  knowing  that  her  mind  needed  heal- 
ing more  than  her  body.  And  when  other  duties  called 
him,  he  left  her  feeling  that  he  had  given  her  a  start 
in  the  right  direction. 

He  came  again  and  again  during  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed, and  each  time  the  talk  was  an  effort  to  build  up 
in  her  a  desire  to  grip  life  and  go  on  with  the  fight. 
She  was  in  a  frame  of  mind  where  a  negative  suggestion 
would  have  sent  her  hurtling  into  melancholia;  and 
with  all  the  power  and  skill  that  thirty  years  of  healing 
had  given  him,  he  struggled  to  bring  her  to  normality. 

Little  by  little  she  told  him  of  her  life,  and  he  met 
each  point  with  an  irrefutable  logic  that  changed  her 
whole  mental  attitude  towards  her  troubles.  He  tried 
— 156 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

to  make  her  see  that  she  was  stronger  for  her  sorrows, 
that  this  weakness  was  only  temporary,  that  she  would 
return  to  the  world  fortified  and  equipped  for  a  win- 
ning fight. 

"I  didn't  know  there  were  doctors  in  the  world  like 
you,"  she  said  naively. 

"There  are  a  lot  of  us,"  he  answered,  "and  more 
coming." 

"You  don't  give  me  any  medicine." 

"I  would  if  you  needed  it,  but  I  feed  you  well,  and 
make  you  rest,  and  we  have  fine  talks." 

"I  wish  everybody  in  the  world  could  come  to  you," 
she  said. 

Three  weeks  from  the  day  of  her  arrival  in  the  sani- 
tarium, Evelyn  was  again  in  the  hall  bedroom  on  the 
top  floor  of  Mrs.  Brady's  theatrical  rooming-house.  Her 
stay  at  Dr.  Holt's  had  cut  heavily  into  her  slender  sav- 
ings, but  she  was  full  of  hope  and  courage,  and  the 
next  morning  saw  her  making  the  rounds  of  the  agents 
and  managers. 

Two  weeks  went  by,  and  there  was  no  work  in  sight. 
She  went  once  a  week  to  see  Dr.  Holt,  and  his  talks 
saved  her  from  depression,  but  as  time  wore  on,  and 
her  money  dwindled,  she  grew  anxious  and  sought  al- 
most fiercely  for  an  engagement. 

Then  one  morning  she  happened  to  be  just  the  "type" 
that  a  prominent  manager  was  looking  for  and  she  was 
engaged  for  a  Broadway  production  at  a  salary  of 
sixty  dollars  a  week.  From  this  interview  she  returned 
with  her  contract  in  hand,  stilled  and  prayerful  over 
this  great  piece  of  good  fortune. 

"Oh,  my  luck — my  luck,  you  have  changed  at  last!" 
she  said. 


—157— 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

new  play  for  which  Evelyn  had  been  engaged 
JL  was  to  serve  as  a  vehicle  for  the  initial  starring 
of  the  manager's  wife,  a  woman  Broadway  had 
never  accepted  without  reservation.  For  years  she  had 
played  leads  with  well-known  male  stars ;  for  years  she 
had  been  photographed  and  advertised,  and  Tilton 
thought  that  the  time  was  ripe  to  present  her  as  a  full- 
fledged  star.  He  secured  a  play  by  a  prominent  author, 
ordered  an  elaborate  scenic  production,  engaged  a  com- 
pany of  distinguished  players,  and  commanded  his  press 
agent  to  "get  on  the  job."  Tilton's  pet  theory  was: 
"Ram  it  down  their  throats  hard  enough  and  they'll 
think  they  like  it." 

Evelyn's  part  was  small,  she  appeared  in  one  act  only, 
and  had  been  engaged  because  she  absolutely  visualised 
the  character  that  Tilton  had  in  his  mind.  She  had  been 
selected  out  of  twenty  better-known  actresses  who  had 
been  sent  to  interview  him.  He  didn't  have  to  know 
if  she  could  act — another  favourite  remark  of  his  was: 
"Hitting  the  eye  is  nine-tenths  of  acting."  At  the  be- 
ginning of  his  career  Tilton  had  been  a  ring-master  in 
the  world's  greatest  circus,  and  he  retained  many  of  his 
tan-bark  values. 

This  was  Evelyn's  first  engagement  in  a  Broadway 
production,  and  she  was  told  to  have  her  picture  taken, 
and  turn  them  into  the  office  for  Press  work.  They  got 
out  a  story  telling  of  the  difficulty  that  Tilton  had  had 
in  finding  a  girl  to  fit  the  part,  and  how  walking  up 
Broadway  he  had  seen  a  girl  pick  up  a  lame  puppy  and 
carry  it  into  a  drug  store  to  telephone  for  the  Humane 
-158- 


The  Least  Resistance 

Society  wagon;  how  Tilton  had  been  struck  by  the  ex- 
pression on  the  girl's  face,  and  after  the  dog  had  been 
sent  on  its  way,  he  approached  her  and  asked  her  if  she 
would  play  a  part  in  one  of  his  plays. 

Evelyn  read  the  story  with  amazement,  and  blushed 
deeply  the  next  morning  when  the  members  of  the  com- 
pany asked  her  if  she  had  found  any  lame  puppies  on 
her  way  to  the  theatre.  Gordon  Wayne  followed  up 
the  teasing  when  he  found  that  she  could  blush  over 
it.  Most  of  the  women  that  he  knew  had  lost  the  power 
of  blushing,  and  he  found  it  a  novel  and  charming  pic- 
ture— the  wave  of  colour  in  the  usually  pale  cheeks,  and 
the  averting  of  the  questioning  eyes. 

Though  Evelyn  appeared  in  only  one  act,  she  was 
kept  at  the  theatre  all  through  the  rehearsals,  for  Paver 
never  knew  just  what  scene  Miss  Hartwell  was  going 
to  do  next.  This  gave  Evelyn  plenty  of  time  to  ob- 
serve the  members  of  the  company,  and  she  was  inter- 
ested in  comparing  them  with  her  former  associates. 
Their  clothes  were  better;  the  women  wore  soft  cling- 
ing gowns,  and  used  subtle  perfumes;  the  men  all  ap- 
peared in  snug-fitting  suits,  their  shoulders  devoid  of 
all  padding,  their  collars  and  cuffs  immaculate,  their 
scarfs  unobtrusive  and  they  all  carried  canes  and  smoked 
cigarettes. 

She  liked  to  hear  them  speak,  all  of  them,  their  voices 
were  pleasant,  and  their  speech  round  and  definite.  They 
discussed  all  matters  and  all  persons  with  familiarity 
and  assurance — the  same  qualities  were  in  their  act- 
ing. In  every  external  way  they  were  vastly  superior 
to  her  old  associates  but  they  were  not  so  kind.  They 
gossiped  incessantly,  and  criticised  each  other  unmerci- 
fully, all  the  while  keeping  up  a  great  show  of  good- 
feeling  and  comradeship. 

The  two  stars,  Gordon  Wayne  and  Ridgley  Elaine, 
who  had  been  engaged  to  strengthen  the  cast,  treated 

—159— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Miss  Hartwell  with  polite  indifference.  The  other  mem- 
bers of  the  company,  whose  jobs  were  less  secure,  ex- 
hibited an  awed  deference,  varied  by  an  occasional  out- 
burst of  extravagant  flattery — were  apparently  grate- 
ful when  Miss  Hartwell  favoured  them  with  a  word 
or  smile,  but  when  her  back  was  turned  she  was  a  "cat" 
and  a  "rep  actress  trying  to  star,"  and  other  equally 
unflattering  things.  Miss  Hartwell,  well  versed  in  hu- 
man nature,  sensed  their  attitudes  and  exacted  every 
vestige  of  respect  and  deference  that  was  her  due;  re- 
warding them  sometimes  with  a  superior  gracious  word, 
more  often  presenting  to  them  a  threatening  hauteur. 

The  rehearsals  dragged  on,  and  week  after  week  the 
opening  was  postponed.  Scenes  had  to  be  rewritten, 
actors  changed,  scenery  built.  The  locale  of  the  third 
act  was  changed  and  a  whole  new  set  had  to  be  ordered. 
Tilton  was  sparing  no  expense,  and  taking  his  own  time. 

The  actors  grumbled,  and  lost  interest;  the  star  grew 
irritable  and  found  fault  with  the  members  of  the  com- 
pany, tried  to  show  them  how  to  act — many  with  more 
reputation  and  ability  than  she.  But  in  view  of  the 
excellent  salaries  that  Tilton  was  paying,  and  the  long 
season  he  had  promised,  they  stood  for  her  directions, 
though  they  abused  her  soundly  behind  her  back. 

Encouraged  by  her  success  in  instructing  the  minor 
members  of  the  cast,  Miss  Hartwell  attempted  to  show 
Gordon  Wayne  how  to  play  his  drunken  scene  in  the 
second  act.  In  the  middle  of  the  object-lesson  he  left 
the  stage,  picked  up  his  hat  and  cane,  and  in  a  calm, 
courteous  voice  said:  "An  excellent  performance,  Miss 
Hartwell,  but  imitations  are  out  of  my  line — I  bid  you 
good-day." 

This  speech  and  the  departure  of  Gordon  Wayne  pre- 
cipitated a  scene  that  refused  to  down  even  when  Tilton, 
in  answer  to  a  hurried  summons  from  his  director, 
rushed  into  the  theatre.  It  had  been  his  morning  to 
— 160 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

see  about  the  scenery,  and  the  rehearsal  had  been  left 
in  the  hands  of  Miss  Hartwell,  and  Paver,  an  anemic, 
sycophantic  stage  manager  who  never  by  any  happy 
chance  did  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time. 

Miss  Hartwell's  first  response  to  the  parting  shot 
of  her  leading  man  was  an  indignant  speech  delivered 
from  the  centre  of  the  stage. 

"Such  insolence — such  conceit !  A  man  who  has  never 
been  a  successful  star — no  wonder!  He  knows  it  all! 
Such  insolence!"  She  repeated  the  phrase  now  with 
a  rising,  now  with  a  falling,  inflection. 

The  members  of  the  company,  seated  about  the  stage 
on  chairs  and  boxes,  looked  on  with  expressionless  faces, 
all  but  old  man  James,  who  retired  to  a  corner  for  a 
chuckle  at  her  discomfiture.  She  had  been  making 
his  life  miserable  for  days,  and  he,  too  valueless  to  pro- 
test, now  rejoiced  in  the  public  rebuke  that  Gordon  had 
given  her. 

"Such  insolence !"  she  cried  again.  "Where  is  Paver?" 
she  demanded,  looking  about.  "Paver — where  are  you  ?" 

There  was  no  answer,  for  Paver  had  rushed  to  the 
front  of  the  house  to  telephone  for  Tilton.  Poor  Paver, 
it  was  his  tragedy  that,  in  spite  of  his  heroic  efforts 
to  please  the  Tiltons,  he  was  never  known  to  succeed. 
He  held  his  position  because  a  man  of  more  purpose 
and  more  force  could  not  have  stood  the  exactions  and 
humiliations  put  upon  him  by  Tilton  and  his  tempera- 
mental wife. 

"Paver!  That  man  was  never  known  to  be  in  the 
right  place  in  his  life!  At  the  first  sign  of  trouble  he 
runs  like  a  deer!  I  wonder  that  this  play  is  ever  pro- 
duced. No  co-operation — nothing  but  uphill  work  for 
me  and  Mr.  Tilton.  And  yet,  oh,  God !  some  women 
want  to  star."  Still  hugging  the  centre  of  the  stage, 
Miss  Hartwell's  mood  changed — she  was  overcome  with 
self-pity.  Then  looking  about  at  the  expressionless  faces 

— 161— 


The  Least  Resistance 

of  her  company,  her  anger  rose  against  them.  They  lined 
up  in  her  mind  with  Gordon  Wayne — all  plotting  against 
her,  and  the  success  of  the  play. 

This  was  her  first  starring  venture,  towards  which 
she  had  moved  for  years  in  spite  of  the  lack  of  appre- 
ciation of  the  general  public.  But  under  all  her  super- 
ficiality there  was  a  substratum  of  purpose,  a  boundless 
belief  in  her  own  ability,  and  through  this  she  had  swept 
Tilton  on  until  he  was  ready  to  make  this  elaborate 
production  to  introduce  her.  In  his  heart  he  thought 
acting  counted  for  little — the  trick  was  to  keep  handing 
the  public  a  thing  until  they  thought  they  liked  it.  It 
was  about  time  that  they  decided  to  like  Miss  Hartwell. 

Having  telephoned,  Paver  rushed  from  the  front  of 
the  house  to  the  stage,  wiping  his  cold,  perspiring  hands 
on  his  handkerchief.  He  knew  that  he  would  bear 
the  brunt  of  her  displeasure,  but  he  must  stand  it,  for 
she  had  promised  to  put  his  name  on  the  programme  as 
the  producer  of  "The  Higher  Law." 

"Well,"  Miss  Hartwell  greeted  him,  "what  became  of 
you?  You  leave  me  here  to  be  insulted  by  an  insolent 
actor?" 

"I  went  to  'phone  Mr.  Tilton— he'll  be  right  over,"  he 
answered. 

"Aren't  you  able  to  manage  these  people?  You  call 
yourself  a  producer,  I  believe — and  yet,  oh,  what  a 
position  for  me ! — insulted,  annoyed  by  an  incompetent 
actor — oh!"  Tears  filled  her  eyes  and  she  began  to 
sob. 

While  her  eyes  were  covered  with  her  drenched  hand- 
kerchief, the  members  of  the  company  exchanged  amused 
glances.  Tilton  burst  in  on  this  scene. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded.  "Winnie,  what  is 
it— Paver?" 

For  answer  Winine  sobbed  more  violently,  and  Paver 
wiped  his  hands  more  nervously.  It  was  a  difficult  sittta- 
— 162 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

tion;  he  dared  not  offend  Miss  Hartwell  by  minimising 
Wayne's  behaviour,  nor  did  he  care  to  go  on  record 
before  the  company  as  having  spoken  against  a  man  of 
Wayne's  position. 

"A  little  trouble  between  Miss  Hartwell  and  Mr. 
Wayne — "  he  began. 

"Where  is  he?"  Tilton  asked. 

"Little  trouble?"  Winnie  demanded,  forsaking  her 
handkerchief.  "Such  insolence  you  never  heard.  I 
wanted  him  to  change  some  business,  and  he  insulted 
me,  and  left  the  theatre.  Nobody  said  a  word  to  him — 
Paver  ran  away !"  And  she  glared  at  the  luckless  Paver. 

"I  went  to  phone  Mr.  Tilton." 

"The  company  is  dismissed  for  the  day,"  Tilton  broke 
in.  "Ten  o'clock  to-morrow  for  rehearsal." 

They  took  up  their  hats  and  parts,  and  filed  out,  linger- 
ing as  long  as  possible,  hoping  to  hear  more  of  the  row, 
but  Winnie  sobbed  quietly,  and  Tilton  and  Paver  stood 
silent  in  the  centre  of  the  stage  until  the  last  actor  had 
disappeared. 

"Now,  Winnie,"  Tilton  said  sternly,  "I  told  you  to  let 
people  alone.  You  want  to  kill  the  show  before  it  opens 
— you  can't  treat  men  like  Wayne  that  way,  they  won't 
stand  it.  Grimshaw  is  trying  to  get  him  away  from  me 
now,  and  here  you  come  with  your " 


'I  didn't  do  anything — I  just  wanted- 


"I  know,"  he  broke  in  impatiently,  "but  you  aren't  here 
to  direct — I'll  do  that,  and  when  I'm  away  Paver  will 
see  to  it.  This  show's  to  open  Monday,  and  suppose  I 
can't  get  Wayne  back  ?  We  don't  stand  a  chance  without 
him.  I'm  paying  him  a  big  salary  for  his  drawing  power 
— he'll  bring  ten  people  into  the  house  where  you'll  bring 
one — at  first.  Now  I've  had  enough  trouble  with  this 
show,  and  you  either  behave,  or  I'll  call  the  whole  thing 
off." 

"I  shouldn't  care  in  the  least  if  you  did." 

-163- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"You  say  that  now!"  he  said  with  a  shrug.  "Paver, 
go  down  to  the  studio  and  see  about  that  last  act." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Come  on,  Winnie — I've  got  the  car,  I'll  take  you 
home." 

"I  won't  come,  I  don't  want  to  star  in  this  piece." 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  he  said  soothingly.  "Come  on," 
and  he  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  to  the  waiting 
automobile. 

The  next  few  hours  were  strenuous  ones  for  Tilton, 
with  two  outraged  "artists"  to  placate,  but  he  was 
evidently  successful,  for  they  both  appeared  the  next 
morning  at  ten.  Miss  Hartwell  brave  in  a  new  French 
gown,  and  a  gorgeous  plumed  hat  reached  the  theatre 
first,  and  ten  minutes  later  Gordon  Wayne  entered.  He 
lifted  his  hat  as  he  passed  her,  and  she  nodded  her 
head.  He  crossed  the  stage,  sat  down  by  Evelyn,  and 
asked  in  a  pleasant,  casual  voice,  "Find  any  more  sick 
puppies  this  morning?" 

She  laughed,  and  the  sound  made  the  others  glance 
her  way.  Miss  Hartwell  looked  over  with  stern,  disap- 
proving eyes.  And  when  Evelyn  began  her  scene  in 
the  second  act,  she  realised  that  this  morning  she  was 
the  object  of  the  royal  displeasure. 

"Why  don't  you  keep  the  readings  you  were  given?" 
Miss  Hartwell  asked  in  a  voice  that  said,  of  course  with 
your  intelligence  that  isn't  possible,  but  I  want  you  to 
acknowledge  it  before  the  company. 

"I  didn't  know  that  I  had  changed  the  reading," 
Evelyn  answered,  and  in  fact  she  was  giving  the  exact 
reading  that  Paver  had  insisted  on  yesterday. 

"You  were  told  to  emphasise  'house'  in  that  speech— 
'Came  to  our  house — wasn't  that  the  idea  ?" 

"I  don't  remember  it  that  way,  but  I'll  try."  She  gave 
the  new  reading — it  was  false  and  her  intelligence 
— 164 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

rebelled  against  it,  but  she  knew  that  she  must  do  as 
she  was  told. 

"Go  over  it  and  see  if  it  is  planted.  Every  day  some- 
body in  this  company  changes  readings." 

They  went  back  several  speeches  and  when  they  got  to 
the  one  in  question,  Evelyn  in  her  nervousness  read  it 
in  the  old  way. 

Miss  Hartwelt  threw  up  her  hands.  "Can't  you 
remember?"  she  asked. 

Tilton  was  walking  up  and  down  the  front  of  the 
stage,  wishing  that  Winnie  would  shut  up,  and  let  the 
actors  alone.  He  knew  that  she  was  in  the  wrong,  but 
in  her  condition,  he  knew  also  that  one  word  from  him 
would  bring  on  another  scene. 

Paver  leaning  against  the  proscenium  arch  looked  on 
anxiously  wiping  his  hands  as  usual  on  his  handkerchief. 
Gordon  Wayne,  not  required  in  this  scene,  was  seated  in 
a  corner  reading  a  newspaper.  At  Miss  Hartwell's  last 
speech  he  looked  over  the  top  of  his  paper  with  a  grim 
smile  on  his  lips. 

"Try  it  again,"  Miss  Hartwell  said,  "it  seems  strange 
to  me  that  for  four  weeks  you  have  been  rehearsing  and 
now  you  can't  read  a  line  as  you  have  been  told.  The 
stage  seems  to  attract  all  of  the  stupid,  incompetent  people 
in  the  world !" 

At  this  Gordon  Wayne  dropped  his  paper.  "Say, 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  Paver?  Three  times  yes- 
terday you  went  over  that  line  with  this  young  lady 
so  that  she  would  emphasise  'came/  and  now  you  stand 
by  and  never  say  a  word ;  besides,"  he  added  in  a  lower 
tone,  "  'came'  is  the  word  in  the  sentence." 

"Mr.  Wayne,  this  is  not  your  company "   Miss 

Hartwell  began  with  blazing  eyes. 

"You  bet  it  isn't,"  he  answered,  "if  it  were,  there 
would  be  a  competent  director  about,  and  no  bullying 
of  defenceless  girls  allowed." 

-165- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Am  I  to  stand  for  such  insolence  ?"  Winnie  demanded 
of  her  husband. 

"Jump  that  speech  and  go  on  with  the  scene,"  Tilton 
commanded.  "We  open  with  this  show  Monday  night, 
and  I  don't  want  any  more  rows.  And  I'll  do  all  of  the 
directing  hereafter — that  goes  for  all  of  you." 

Miss  Hartwell's  first  impulse  was  to  leave  the  theatre 
in  superb  indignation,  but  the  repeated  assurance  that 
they  would  open  Monday  night  caused  her  to  forego  a 
dramatic  exit,  and  to  go  on  with  the  scene.  She  punished 
Gordon  Wayne  by  never  speaking  to  him  again,  nor  did 
Evelyn  ever  draw  from  her  any  sign  of  recognition. 

"I  think  we'll  have  an  interesting  affair  to  watch,"  she 
said  later  to  Stanley  Harper,  a  juvenile  who  played  her 
brother. 

"Yes — where?'1  he  asked,  though  he  knew  perfectly 
well  hei  meaning. 

"I  mean  that  little  pale  person  evidently  pleases  the 
great  Mr.  Wayne." 

"She  isn't  exactly  his  style." 

"You  couldn't  say  that  she  was  any  style — but  she  has 
those  innocent  eyes  that  are  effective  when  a  man  is 
worn  out  with  other  types." 

Harper  shrugged  his  shoulders,  not  caring  to  commit 
himself,  and  was  glad  when  he  was  called  for  his  scene. 
"What  a  cat,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  away. 

The  company  composed  of  twenty  actors,  a  working 
staff  of  six,  the  producer,  author,  manager  and  the 
author's  wife,  left  Saturday  night  for  Rochester.  Sunday 
was  to  be  devoted  to  putting  up  the  scenery,  and  Sunday 
night  the  dress  rehearsal  would  be  held. 

They  arrived  in  Rochester  early  Sunday  morning,  and 

as  Evelyn  left  the  station  she  saw  Gordon  Wayne  and  a 

stranger  step  into  a  taxicab,   and    for    a  moment  her 

impulse  was  to  call  one  for  herself,  but  thrift  triumphed, 

—166— 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  she  boarded  a  car,  and  rode  up  to  a  hotel  where 
rooms  were  to  be  had  for  a  dollar  a  day. 

During  the  afternoon  she  walked  about  the  city, 
returned,  had  a  nap  and  dinner,  and  at  seven  o'clock  was 
at  the  theatre  to  get  ready  for  the  dress  rehearsal. 

A  scene  of  confusion  and  disorder  greeted  her,  as 
she  opened  the  stage  door — the  sound  of  hammers,  the 
hurrying  of  property  boys,  the  frantic  calling  of  Paver 
from  the  centre  of  the  stage  to  the  men  in  the  flies.  The 
first  act  set  was  not  up,  and  as  she  passed  the  head  car- 
penter she  heard  him  send  to  everlasting  perdition  the 
men  in  New  York  who  had  built  it. 

She  looked  in  the  mail  box,  but  there  were  no  letters 
for  her,  no  telegram  wishing  her  happiness  and  success. 
From  the  list  on  the  call  board  she  learned  that  she  was 
to  dress  with  Ann  Dwight,  the  ingenue  of  the  cast. 

She  found  Ann  in.  She  had,  of  course,  taken  the 
dressing  stand  with  the  best  light,  and  had  hung  her 
clothes  on  most  of  the  hooks  in  the  room.  But  Evelyn 
was  too  nervous  and  anxious  over  the  ordeal  ahead  of 
her  to  care  anything  about  Ann's  selfishness.  It  terri- 
fied her  to  think  of  the  number  of  people  she  had  to 
please — Tilton,  Miss  Hartwell,  the  author,  and  his  wife, 
and  possibly  others. 

She  moved  about  unpacking  her  things,  and  laying  out 
her  make-up.  She  was  not  on  until  the  second  act,  and 
she  knew  that  it  would  be  hours  before  it  was  called — 
hours  in  which  to  think  and  fear. 

"Like  my  clothes  ?"  Ann  asked,  breaking  the  silence  of 
the  room. 

"Yes,  they  are  charming,"  Evelyn  answered,  glancing 
at  the  array  on  the  hooks.  "I  like  the  pink  one 
especially." 

"Well,  it  ought  to  be  good  looking,  cost  me  a  hundred 
and  a  quarter.  This  play  will  have  to  run  a  long  time  for 
me  to  get  back  what  I  have  spent  in  clothes." 

-167- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Did  you  have  to  get  such  expensive  ones?"  Evelyn 
asked. 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  play  Hartwell's  sister,  and  her 
things  will  cost  'a  million,'  and  so  mine  have  to  look  like 
something." 

"It  is  dreadful  that  they  didn't  furnish  your  things. 
Mine  amount  to  so  little,  but  you  have  three  gowns  and 
hats,  too,"  Evelyn  said  sympathetically. 

"Well,  Tilton  is  paying  me  a  pretty  decent  salary," 
Ann  said,  "but  even  at  that  to  spend  four  hundred  dol- 
lars for  your  clothes  on  just  a  chance  is  enough  to  give 
one  the  shivers." 

"The  play  has  a  good  chance  to  succeed,"  Evelyn 
said. 

"Yes,"  Ann  answered,  "and  it  has  a  good  chance  not  to 
— Hartwell  isn't  much  of  a  favourite — they  can't  see  her 
in  New  York.  But  I  hope  it  will  go,  it  gives  me  an  op- 
portunity on  Broadway,  and  that  is  what  we  all  want  in 
this  business.  I  have  been  in  six  Broadway  productions 
in  the  last  three  years  and  though  some  of  them  were 
failures,  the  managers  know  me,  and  the  public,  too.  I 
always  get  a  reception  on  the  opening  night,  and  my 
salary  has  gone  right  on  up,  so  I  think  it  is  best  to  stick 
to  the  new  productions  even  if  it  is  such  a  gamble."  Ann 
rambled  on  with  the  talk  about  herself,  how  she  always 
seemed  to  open  in  Rochester,  what  the  critics  had  said 
of  her,  and  the  parts  she  had  turned  down  to  accept  this 
one.  "It  was  really  a  good  part  when  I  first  read  it, 
but  they  have  given  every  decent  line  I  had  to  Hartwell. 
•Really,  your  part  is  better  than  mine  even  if  it  is  short." 

Evelyn  did  not  answer;  she  found  this  continued  talk 
of  self  very  tiresome.  Even  Hilda  in  the  old  days  had 
not  been  so  engrossingly  and  unconsciously  egotistical — 
often  in  the  midst  of  some  tale  of  triumph,  she  would 
laugh  and  say,  "I  hate  myself,  don't  I?  You  know, 
Evelyn,  I  don't  believe  all  of  this  junk  about  myself,  but 
— 168— 


The  Least  Resistance 

I've  got  in  the  habit  of  always  telling  a  brave  tale."  And 
she  and  Evelyn  would  laugh  over  the  matter.  But  Ann 
was  so  serious,  so  thoroughly  unaware  that  there  was 
another  human  being  in  the  room  who  might  have  a  his- 
tory of  some  interest.  She  kept  the  talk  close  to  her 
own  achievements,  and  scarcely  seemed  aware  that  Evelyn 
no  longer  answered  her  with  appropriate  wonder  and 
appreciation. 

"I'm  so  nervous,"  she  said  at  last,  "Hartwell  will  be 
sure  to  find  fault  with  my  clothes.  Wasn't  she  funny 
when  she  nagged  you  just  because  you  laughed  at  Gordon 
Wayne  when  she  was  so  out  with  him?" 

"Was  that  why?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Didn't  you  know  that?  We  all  got  it.  It  was  bully 
of  him  to  speak  up — I  guess  he  is  about  the  most  fearless 
man  we  have  in  this  business.  Well,  he  can  afford  to  be, 
he  has  a  lot  of  money,  besides  what  he  earns,  and  you 
know  his  brother  is  Bratton  Wayne,  the  big  novelist — 
I  guess  he  is  on  for  the  opening." 

"I  saw  a  man  get  in  the  taxi  with  him  this  morning." 

"That  was  his  brother.  He  is  always  on  hand  for  the 
openings.  He  is  very  attractive,  don't  you  think  ?" 

Before  Evelyn  could  answer  a  voice  outside  the  door 
called  out,  "Half  Hour,"  and  Ann  in  a  panic  stopped  her 
gossiping  and  got  into  her  gown. 

"Will  you  hook  me,  please  ?"  she  asked,  backing  up  to 
Evelyn. 

Evelyn  fastened  the  dress  in  silence,  thinking  all  the 
while  of  the  information  Ann  had  just  imparted. 
What  a  wonderful  world  she  had  dropped  into — famous 
actors,  and  authors,  and  the  atmosphere  of  lavishness 
and  success.  She  was  in  a  big  Broadway  production,  the 
dream  of  every  member  of  the  theatrical  profession. 
How  far  away  seemed  the  old  days !  How  far  away 
seemed  old  friends — even  Hubbard,  but  a  little  stab  of 

— 169 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

pain  reminded  her  that  the  memory  of  him  was  not 
dim. 

"Where  are  you  stopping  ?"  Ann  was  asking,  and  when 
Evelyn  replied  she  went  on,  "I  thought  of  going  there, 
but  I  came  up  in  a  cab  with  Miss  Blaney,  and  she  was 
going  to  the  Seneca  and  so  I  did,  too.  I  have  a  room 
and  bath,  and  it's  awfully  expensive — but  people  in  a 
company  like  this  judge  you  by  your  hotel." 

"How  can  they  judge  you?  It  simply  means  that  you 
haven't  a  lot  of  money." 

"I  don't  know,  but  they  do.  They  think  you  are  getting 
a  small  salary  and " 

"Fifteen  minutes,"  the  voice  of  the  assistant  stage 
manager  called  down  the  corridor. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  nervous !  Every  line  has  gone  out  of  my 
head.  I'm  scared  to  death,  aren't  you?"  Ann  asked. 

"Well,  I've  been  calmer,  but  you  must  try  not  to  think 
about  it — you  are  fine  and  they  like  you,  so  why  should 
you  feel  anxious  ?" 

"You  are  awfully  good,"  Ann  said,  touched  by  this 
encouragement.  "You  are  bully  in  your  bit — I  think 
you'll  make  a  hit,"  she  added  not  to  be  outdone  in 
magnanimity.  Ann  was  kind-hearted  in  spite  of  her 
egotism,  and  loyal,  as  Evelyn  afterwards  found  out,  and 
they  grew  in  time  to  like  each  other  as  well  as  was  possi- 
ble considering  their  fundamental  dissimilarity. 

There  was  a  long  pause  in  the  dressing  room.  Evelyn 
was  making  up,  and  Ann  putting  the  last  polish  on  her 
finger  nails  when  the  first  act  was  called. 

"Good  luck  to  you,"  Evelyn  said,  as  Ann  started 
towards  the  door. 

She  turned  to  answer,  "The  same  to  you." 

Evelyn  followed  her  to  the  door,  and  peeped  out  at 
the  stage.     As  she  stood  there  Gordon  Wayne  passed. 
"May  I  wish  you  great  success?"  she  said,  remembering 
his  championship  at  the  rehearsal. 
—170— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Thanks,"  he  said  heartily.  "Aren't  you  coming  out 
to  look  at  the  first  act?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  be  in  the  way." 

"Go  out  front  and  sit  in  the  back  of  the  house — no 
one  will  know  anything  about  it." 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  repeated,  "you  know  I  am  not  in  high 
favour." 

"The  old  cat,"  he  said.  "Get  dressed  and  I'll  fix  it  for 
you." 

She  turned  in  to  the  dressing  room,  and  put  on  the  little 
black  dress  which  she  was  to  wear  in  the  next  act.  By 
the  time  she  had  fastened  it  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  she  opened  it  to  find  Gordon  Wayne  and 
another  man  outside. 

"Miss  Lane,  may  I  present  my  brother?  He  is  going 
to  sit  out  front  and  will  look  after  you." 

This,  then,  was  Bratton  Wayne,  the  novelist;  this 
slight  man  with  a  thin  refined  face,  and  eyes  that  gleamed 
behind  shell-bound  glasses;  whose  cool,  slender  hand 
gave  hers  a  hearty  shake,  and  took  her  arm  to  guide 
her  through  the  door  that  opened  into  the  dark  boxes. 

"We'll  sit  in  the  rear  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the 
managerial  conferences,"  he  said. 

She  was  wondering  how  she  should  talk  to  him.  He 
would  think  her  stupid,  or  perhaps  he  had  rather  she 
didn't  talk  at  all — that  at  least  was  safer. 

They  seated  themselves  in  one  of  the  back  rows  of 
the  darkened  theatre.  Down  near  the  orchestra  pit  a 
single  light  burned  and  seated  about  it  was  a  small  group, 
among  them  Tilton  and  Carl  Van  Horn,  the  author.  The 
curtain  was  down,  and  the  house  so  still  that  the  talk 
between  the  group  was  easily  heard  by  Bratton  Wayne 
and  Evelyn. 

"I  never  wanted  him,"  the  author  was  saying;  "he's  not 
my  idea  of  the  part." 

"Well,  he  rounds  out  the  cast — you'll  see,"  Tilton  put 

—171— 


The  Least  Resistance 

in,  "and  he  gives  weight  to  that  scene  in  the  second  act — 
just  where  your  play  is  weakest.  I  know  he  wears  a  wig 
that  you  can  spot  a  mile  away,  but  you  forget  that  when 
he  begins  to  act." 

Evelyn  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  they  were  not  dis- 
cussing Gordon  Wayne,  as  she  had  feared,  but  Ridgely 
Blaine,  the  heavy  man.  She  was  not  aware  that  her  sigh 
had  been  audible  until  the  voice  at  her  side  said,  "I 
shouldn't  have  minded." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  and  after  a  moment's  pause  added,  "It 
must  be  wonderful  to  be  so  clever,  not  stupid  and 
groping " 

He  was  a  man  with  a  large  and  appreciative  public,  but 
this  ingenuous  compliment  touched  him  as  elaborate  and 
intentional  flattery  never  could.  There  was  a  wistfulness 
about  her,  a  something  in  her  voice  that  said,  "Had  I 
your  wisdom  the  dark  places  in  my  life  would  be  made 
light." 

"Most  of  us  are  groping,"  he  said,  turning  to  her  with 
a  new  interest. 

"You?"  she  asked. 

"Incessantly." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  they  sat  in  silence  until  the 
curtain  went  up  on  the  luxurious  interior  of  the  heroine's 
house.  An  immaculate  butler  entered  bearing  a  tea  tray ; 
he  deposited  it  on  the  centre  table,  lighted  the  spirit 
lamp,  and  withdrew.  Ann  Dwight  danced  on  in  appro- 
priate ingenue  fashion,  but  before  she  could  speak  her 
first  line  Tilton  called  out,  "Wait!  Cut  out  that  blue 
light  on  the  back  drop — electrician — Sam — Paver !" 

Paver  thrust  a  pale  face  through  the  right  stage  door, 
and  peered  down  into  the  orchestra. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Tilton— yes,  sir?" 

"What  are  you  lighted  up  for  back  there — a  scene  on 
the  Nile?  It's  afternoon  in  New  York  City." 

"It's  five  o'clock — winter  afternoon — pretty  dark,  sir." 
— 172 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Yes,  but  a  grey  dark,  not  blue.  Looks  like  you  have 
cornered  the  indigo  trust." 

"All  right,  sir.  I'll  fix  it.  Sam— Sam "  He  dis- 
appeared, calling  wildly  to  the  electrician. 

The  curtain  remained  up  while  Paver  and  Sam  experi- 
mented with  the  lights  on  the  back  drop.  The  talk 
between  the  men  down  front  was  resumed,  but  in  a  lower 
key. 

Evelyn  made  no  effort  to  talk  to  Bratton  Wayne,  she 
was  too  interested  in  what  was  going  on  before  her.  It 
was  all  so  exciting,  so  different  from  anything  she  had 
ever  known.  She  hoped  that  she  was  going  to  be  able 
to  keep  her  engagement,  but  she  had  antagonised  the 
star  and  her  head  was  apt  to  fall  any  time,  and  then 
she  would  be  back  in  New  York  face  to  face  with  the 
old  problems.  The  man  next  to  her  stirred,  and  turning 
she  saw  in  the  half  light  his  profile,  the  sharply  defined 
nose,  the  glasses  bound  in  tortoise  shell,  the  thin  lips 
parted  in  a  smile. 

"Wonderful  things,  these  productions,"  he  said,  "a 
few  incompetent  men  get  together  and  cook  up  a  thing 
that  means  nothing.  Van  Horn  fills  a  lot  of  pages  with 
tea  and  socialism,  and  passes  it  on  to  Tilton,  who  sees  a 
fine  chance  for  his  wife  to  wear  'swell  gowns',  and  play 
about  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  mansion.  He  engages  Paver, 
and  Paver  knows  as  much  about  a  'coherent  whole'  as  a 
jellyfish.  He  depends  on  the  electrician,  who  knows  all 
about  'juice'  but  nothing  about  twilight." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  subdued  laugh,  "that's  all  true." 

"The  actors  are  selected  for  their  'type'  value,  then 
Tilton  trims  them  to  suit  his  idea  of  Van  Horn's  char- 
acters— and  Van  was  born  in  Washington  Square  and 
went  to  Harvard,  and  Tilton  is  an  ex-ringmaster." 

"Perhaps  that's  why  he  can  make  us  all  jump 
through." 

Bratton  laughed.  "Perhaps.  And  then  after  we  have 

—173— 


.- 


The  Least  Resistance 

abused  these  fellows — fellows  like  Tilton,  we've  got  to 
acknowledge  that  they  are  remarkable.  They  have  little 
education,  and  less  culture,  but  they  seem  to  have  a  sixth 
sense  that  qualifies  them  for  this  business.  The  moment 
he  saw  you,  he  knew  that  he  wanted  you  for  the  part, 
didn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"There  you  are !  The  manuscript  calls  for  a  small  dark 
girl — that  was  the  author's  idea,  but  when  Tilton  saw  you 
he  recognised  a  quality  that  no  small  dark  girl  would 
possess." 

"What  quality?"  she  asked. 

"It  eludes  words,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "I've  only 
seen  you  twice,"  he  laughed  a  little.  "Perhaps 
later " 

"Twice?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  the  last  rehearsal  in  New  York,  and  just 
now  at  your  door — ah,  here  we  are !" 

Tilton  was  calling  out,  "that's  better — better,"  to  the 
electrician  who  was  trying  different  slides  on  his  lamps. 
"That  will  do!  Ring  down  now,  Paver,  and  begin  all 
over.  And  people — everybody  concerned  in  the  first 
act,  on  the  stage,  please." 

There  was  another  wait,  and  the  voice  of  Paver  calling 
behind  scenes,  "Everybody  in  the  first  act,  please  come 
on  the  stage.  Everybody  in  the  first  act !" 

One  by  one  the  actors  appeared,  Miss  Hartwell  in  an 
elaborate  afternoon  gown,  and  gorgeous  furs,  Ann 
Dwight,  Gordon  Wayne,  the  maid,  the  butler  and  all  the 
minor  characters  concerned  in  the  opening  act.  Paver 
appeared  wiping  his  hands  on  his  handkerchief,  and 
looking  paler  than  usual  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights. 

"Mr.  Elaine  can't  get  on  just  now,  Mr.  Tilton." 

Tilton  paused.  He  was  not  used  to  insubordination, 
and  it  irked  him,  but  he  knew  the  temper  and  wit  of 
Elaine,  and  that  in  any  encounter  the  actor  would  emerge 
—174— 


The  Least  Resistance 

triumphant,  so  he  contented  himself  with,  "Very  well. 
Now  listen,  people,  this  piece  depends  on  getting  this  first 
act  over,  and  it's  up  to  you.  Mr.  Van  Horn  has  given  us 
his  best,  and  I  have  done  all  I  can,  now  you  must  do 
the  rest,  and  remember:  Speed  and  Tension  and  Style! 
Every  word  is  important,  so  say  them  so  that  the  man 
in  the  last  row  can  hear.  That's  all — fire  away,  Paver." 

The  actors  retired  from  the  stage,  the  curtain  went 
down,  to  rise  the  next  moment  for  the  opening  of  the 
play. 

The  act  dragged  along,  there  was  no  disguising  that  it 
was  "talky"  and  slow,  though  the  actors  were  doing  their 
best.  Suddenly  it  halted  altogether,  and  off  stage  Paver 
was  calling,  "Mr.  Elaine,  we  are  waiting  for  you."  And 
after  what  seemed  an  interminable  wait  Elaine  appeared. 

From  the  moment  of  his  entrance  the  play  assumed 
shape  and  purpose,  and  Evelyn's  mind  ceased  to  revolve 
about  the  last  remark  of  Bratton  Wayne's  and  gave 
itself  entirely  to  the  stage,  where  Elaine's  powerful 
personality  was  making  a  rather  artificial  situation  seem 
actual,  and  real. 

In  this  act  the  character  which  she  was  to  create  was 
spoken  of  again  and  again,  and  she  caught  for  the  first 
time  her  true  relation  to  the  other  characters.  It  filled 
her  with  a  new  and  strange  excitement,  an  impulse  and 
desire  to  act,  and  with  these  emotions  came  a  pride 
that  she  was  with  an  organisation  so  important  and 
imposing. 

This  was  a  moment,  such  as  had  been  the  one  when 
Bob  struck  her — she  broke  with  the  old,  and  became  a 
part  of  the  new.  She  was  no  longer  a  stranger,  but  an 
integral  part  of  the  company.  She  felt  a  faint  sense  of 
superiority,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  conviction 
that  the  future  held  wonderful  things  in  store  for  her. 

The  act  closed,  and  the  curtain  rang  down.  It  went  up 
immediately,  and  all  the  actors  filed  on  the  stage.  Tilton 

—175— 


The  Least  Resistance 

rose,  with  pad  in  his  hand — Van  Horn  stood  by  with  a 
similar  pad — they  had  made  many  notes,  and  were  pro- 
fuse in  their  criticisms  and  suggestions.  The  company 
listened  attentively,  then  withdrew.  Miss  Hartwell  came 
down  to  the  footlights,  called  Tilton  and  held  a  whispered 
conference  with  him.  A  moment  later  he  sent  the 
stage  manager  for  Ann  Dwight. 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Dwight,"  he  said,  as  she  appeared, 
"but  that  gown  of  yours  won't  do,  it  is  entirely  too  elabor- 
ate for  this  act." 

There  was  a  pause  before  the  little  ingenue  could  pull 
herself  together  sufficiently  to  reply  in  a  spirit  which 
would  indicate  that  no  matter  how  harsh  the  decisions 
of  Mr.  Tilton  were,  they  were  just  and  right  and  to  be 
obeyed. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Tilton — I  can't  get  one  by  to-morrow. 
What  shall  I  do?" 

"Haven't  you  got  a  little  white  dress  that  you  could 
wear?"  Miss  Hartwell  asked. 

"Not  with  me." 

"Try  the  stores  here — you'll  have  to  do  something — 
your  gown  is  all  out  of  keeping  with  your  character," 
Miss  Hartwell  said,  finally. 

"Why  didn't  they  know  about  that  dress  a  week  ago  ?" 
Bratton  Wayne  asked  Evelyn.  "That's  another  example 
of  Tilton's  attention  to  detail — he  leaves  a  thing  like  a 
gown  to  the  judgment  of  a  poor  little  actress  who  is 
anxious  to  shine." 

"It  cost  a  lot  of  money,  and  she  was  so  proud  of  it," 
Evelyn  replied.  "I  must  go  back  to  see  her.  I  have  a 
dress  that  would  do,  and  I  can  alter  it  to  fit  her.  Good- 
bye, and  thank  you."  She  slipped  from  his  side,  and 
felt  her  way  along  the  row  of  seats,  down  the  aisle 
through  the  dark  boxes  to  the  stage.  In  the  dressing 
room  she  found  Ann  Dwight  in  tears. 

"That  Hartwell  cat,"  she  cried,  "she  had  me  get  that 
— 176 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

dress — she  told  me  the  color,  and  stuff,  and  almost 
designed  it,  and  now  she  says  it  won't  do — Tilton  would 
never  have  thought  of  it.  Oh,  she's  a  cat !" 

"Don't  worry  about  it  now,"  Evelyn  answered ;  "I  have 
a  white  muslin  dress  in  my  trunk  that  I  can  alter  for 
you  and  it  will  do  until  you  can  get  a  better  one." 

"Oh,  can  you? — that  is  fine!"  Ann  said,  brightening  up. 

Evelyn  dived  into  her  trunk  and  brought  up  a  soft 
white  frock  that  her  own  taste  had  designed,  and  her 
own  fingers  put  together.  It  was  dainty,  and  as  she  shook 
it  out  it  gave  forth  a  faint  fragrance. 

"That  is  awfully  pretty,"  Ann  said,  who  was  prepared 
to  admire  anything  that  would  help  her  out  of  her  diffi- 
culty. "And  it's  hand-made,"  she  added,  as  she  in- 
spected it. 

"Yes,  made  by  my  hands — try  it  on." 

"I  think  you  are  awfully  smart  to  be  able  to  do  a  thing 
like  this!"' 

During  the  hour  that  was  required  to  put  up  the 
second  act,  Ann  tried  on  the  dress,  and  Evelyn  ran  a 
tuck  around  it  to  make  it  short  enough  for  the  little 
ingenue. 

Ann,  still  hysterical,  varied  her  gratitude  to  Evelyn 
with  abuse  of  Miss  Hartwell.  She  recounted  all  of  the 
scandal  that  had  attended  the  marriage  of  the  Tiltons. 
How  Winnie  had  made  him  get  rid  of  his  first  wife  who 
had  come  up  with  him  from  circus  days,  and  how  she 
had  sent  Billy  Andrews  to  a  drunkard's  grave  by  desert- 
ing him  for  Tilton.  Evelyn  sewed  on  through  this  stream 
of  talk — the  exhilaration  that  had  come  to  her  as  she 
sat  out  front  ebbing  as  the  sordid  tale  was  unfolded. 

She  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  "second  act — 
second  act"  was  sounded  in  the  passage  before  their  door. 
She  ran  to  her  dressing  table,  freshened  up  her  make-up, 
settled  the  tarn  o'shanter  on  her  head  and  left  the  room 
with  Ann  calling  "Good  luck!"  after  her. 

—177— 


The  Least  Resistance 

The  curtain  went  up,  and  down  again  to  make  some 
changes  in  the  placement  of  the  furniture.  Evelyn  peer- 
ing out  through  a  crack  in  the  door  to  see  the  beautiful 
set,  did  not  hear  Gordon  Wayne  come  up  by  her  until 
he  spoke  wishing  her  the  "best  of  luck." 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much;  and  it  was  fine  out  front — 
it  was  good  of  you." 

"Not  nervous,  are  you?"  he  asked,  knowing  well  from 
the  quality  of  her  voice  that  she  was. 

"A  little — and  awfully  anxious  to  get  through  all 
right." 

"You  needn't  worry,  you'll  do  that." 

A  few  minutes  later  she  heard  her  cue  and  walked 
on  the  stage.  There  had  been  so  much  talk  about  the 
character  in  the  first  act  that  she  had  a  well  built  up 
entrance.  On  the  strength  of  her  appearance  she  had 
been  engaged,  and  it  was  this  appearance  and  personality 
that  was  carrying  her  through  the  scene — the  wistf  ulness, 
the  timidity,  the  eyes  with  their  unanswered  "Why." 

Out  front  Bratton  Wayne  leaned  forward,  Carl  Van 
Horn,  who  was  standing,  sat  down ;  even  Tilton  discon- 
tinued his  use  of  the  pad  and  pencil.  She  had  struck 
the  right  note  and  the  scene  went  through  smoothly  and 
effectively. 

When  the  act  was  over  they  had  only  one  suggestion 
to  make  to  her — some  detail  of  her  make-up  that  she 
could  improve. 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  they  were  only  through  the 
second  act.  There  was  everywhere  tension  and  excite- 
ment, and  complaints  of  hunger  and  thirst. 

Evelyn  was  through  with  her  work,  but  they  all  had 
been  told  to  stay  until  the  rehearsal  was  over,  as  Mr. 
Van  Horn  was  going  to  make  a  few  slight  changes  in 
the  script,  and  it  was  necessary  for  everybody  to  be 
present.  This  was  no  hardship  to  Evelyn,  for  she  had 


The  Least  Resistance 

no  desire  to  leave  the  theatre  for  the  stupidity  of  her 
room  at  the  hotel. 

At  one  o'clock,  the  third  act  not  being  yet  set,  Tilton 
sent  out  for  coffee  and  sandwiches,  and  the  hungry 
company  gathered  about  to  eat  and  drink.  Gordon 
Wayne  called  out  to  his  brother,  and  as  he  came  hurrying 
back,  Evelyn  with  a  new  assurance  handed  him  a  cup 
of  coffee. 

He  thanked  her  with  a  smile,  and  soon  they  were 
chatting  like  old  friends.  And  at  three  o'clock  when  the 
dress  rehearsal  was  over,  he  came  to  her  door  to  say 
that  he  and  his  brother  would  be  very  glad  to  take  her 
home  in  their  cab. 

"Well,  you've  made  two  hits  to-night,"  Ann  Dwight 
said,  as  Evelyn  turned  into  the  room  to  get  her  hat  and 
coat,  and  the  words  evoked  the  mood  of  the  early  part 
of  the  evening — a  sensation  of  being  a  rather  important 
and  worth-while  member  of  society. 


THE  drive  to  the  hotel  through  the  silent,  deserted 
streets  with  the  Wayne  brothers  climaxed  the 
evening.  At  her  side  sat  Gordon,  and  opposite  her 
the  novelist.  Although  it  was  late,  and  the  former  had 
been  at  work  for  hours,  they  talked  gaily  of  the  dress 
rehearsal. 

"That  emotional  scene  between  Elaine  and  Hartwell  is 
as  fine  a  dog  fight  as  I've  ever  seen,"  Gordon  said ;  "the 
heavy  barking  of  the  mastiff  Elaine,  and  the  yelping  of — 
well,  I  guess  you  know  what  breed  yelps " 

"It  occurs  to  me  that  I  do,"  his  brother  answered  and 
they  laughed  at  the  pun. 

"And  Paver — the  Prince  of  Incompetents — came  into 
his  own  to-night;  nothing  he  had  touched  was  right. 
Tilton  bawled  him  out,  Hartwell  shrieked  at  him,  and 
even  the  carpenter  picked  on  him — poor  old  dub,  he 
must  have  worn  out  five  handkerchiefs,  but  the  damned 
spot  would  not  out !"  Gordon  finished  with  a  flourish. 

"Don't  you  feel  sorry  for  Paver — he  is  built  for  his 
business — the  human  football — he  can't  lose " 

"There  is  nothing  there  to  be  lost,"  his  brother  broke 
in,  and  all  laughed  again. 

"Never  mind  that,"  Bratton  went  on,  "some  day  he'll 
be  one  of  our  best  known  producers — as  I  said,  he  can't 
lose " 

"And  as  I  said,  but  I'll  save  it  for  the  Club — it  will  go 
well  there." 

Evelyn  took  no  part  in  this  talk,  but  leaned  back  in 
her  corner,  relaxed  and  happy.  She  felt  remarkably  at 
— 180— 


The  Least  Resistance 

home  with  these  two  men,  and  so  swiftly  did  she  assimi- 
late the  softer  and  pleasanter  side  of  life,  that  when  a 
belated  street  car  whirred  past,  she  felt  a  quick  stab  of 
pity  for  such  as  must  ride  in  them  when  there  were  such 
delightful  things  in  the  world  as  taxicabs.  She  hoped 
by  some  trick  of  fate  that  she  would  be  able  always  to 
go  about  so — perhaps  if  she  worked  hard,  and  got  to  be 
a  great  actress  and  made  a  lot  of  money 

Her  dreaming  was  cut  short  by  the  stopping  of  the 
cab  before  her  hotel.  Bratton  leaped  out,  and  helped 
her  to  alight.  He  shook  hands  warmly,  as  he  said 
"good  night,"  and  from  the  cab  Gordon  called  out  "Sleep 
well." 

She  did  sleep  well,  but  before  she  lost  consciousness, 
she  half  regretted  that  she  hadn't  been  a  little  more  reck- 
less and  gone  to  a  first-class  hotel.  Her  room  was 
such  a  let-down  from  the  excitement  and  flavour  of  the 
evening.  It  would  have  been  wonderful  to  have  come 
into  a  beautifully  furnished  room,  to  have  looked  down 
on  a  soft  pleasing  carpet  instead  of  this  worn  ugly  one ; 
to  have  turned  her  eyes  to  restful  grey  walls,  with  perhaps 
a  garland  of  pink  roses  at  the  top ;  to  have  stood  before 
a  wide  mahogany  dresser,  and  looked  into  a  clear  French 
mirror  instead  of  the  blurred  glass  that  topped  the  oak 
dresser;  and  in  place  of  the  cheap  white  bed  a  single 
one  of  mahogany  with  fine  linen,  and  a  yielding  surface 
for  the  tired  body.  Such  a  room  would  have  been  a 
fitting  close  to  the  evening. 

"But  you'll  probably  go  all  your  life  without  such  a 
room,  young  Evelyn,"  she  said,  as  she  made  ready  for 
bed,  "and  it  won't  do  you  any  good  to  get  your  head  full 
of  such  ideas,  so  go  to  sleep." 

She  was  so  tired  from  the  long  night  that  she  was 
quite  ready  to  obey  the  command,  and  when  next  she 
beheld  her  unattractive  room  the  sun  was  streaming  in, 
and  the  watch  beneath  her  pillow  indicated  twelve 

— 181— 


The  Least  Resistance 

o'clock.  She  felt  fresh  and  rested — ready  for  the  two 
o'clock  rehearsal. 

This  was  just  a  line  rehearsal  held  at  Miss  Hartwell's 
hotel  to  see  that  every  one  was  perfect  as  far  as  the 
words  of  the  play  went. 

When  Evelyn  had  run  through  her  part  she  was 
excused  and  as  she  was  leaving  the  hotel  she  ran  into 
Bratton  Wayne,  who  asked  her  to  come  with  him  for  a 
cup  of  tea  and  a  dish  of  gossip.  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  said  in  her  quick,  breathless  way,  "I  should  like  to." 

"Good!"  He  led  the  way  to  a  corner  table  in  the 
restaurant.  The  head  waiter  held  her  chair,  another 
offered  to  relieve  her  of  her  coat,  and  then  they  departed, 
leaving  her  alone  with  Bratton  Wayne. 

"Is  it  tea  or  a  high  ball?"  he  asked. 

"Tea,  please — green  tea." 

"And  what  else,  muffins  or  sandwiches  or  pastry  or 
what?" 

"Lettuce  sandwich,"  she  said  readily. 

"That  is  food  for  a  bird." 

"It's  enough  for  me.  I  had  lunch  or  rather  breakfast 
at  twelve,  and  it  can't  be  more  than  four  now." 

"All  right,  lettuce  sandwich,  but  we  must  have  some 
pastry  afterwards." 

As  he  gave  the  order  to  the  waiter,  Evelyn  glanced 
about  the  dining  room.  It  was  very  attractive  in  the  soft 
light  of  the  late  afternoon.  On  each  table  a  tall  vase 
held  a  single  rose,  and  shaded  candles  cast  a  mellow  glow 
over  the  white  linen  and  polished  silver.  The  immaculate 
waiters,  so  different  from  the  frayed,  sordid  variety 
that  usually  waited  on  her,  made  her  wish  once  again  that 
her  life  ran  through  the  pleasant  and  gracious  fields  of 
affluence. 

Then  her  eyes  shifted  to  the  man  opposite  her,  the 
slender  figure,  the  well  shaped  face  with  keen  hazel 
eyes  looking  through  highly  polished  glasses,  the  thin, 
—182— 


The  Least  Resistance 

sensitive,  slightly  cynical  mouth,  the  nervous  habit  of 
biting  the  lower  lip  as  his  eyes  scanned  her  face.  He 
listened  attentively  to  whatever  she  had  to  say.  She  had 
a  curious  feeling  that  he  listened  with  not  only  his  ears 
but  his  eyes,  his  mouth — even  his  hands,  with  the  inevita- 
ble cigarette  between  the  fingers,  seemed  to  listen. 

She  had  no  sense  of  strangeness  with  him,  she  seemed 
to  have  known  him  a  long  time,  and  it  never  occurred  to 
her  to  try  to  please  or  entertain  him.  In  fact  she  scarcely 
spoke  except  in  answer  to  a  question.  He  asked  his  ques- 
tions adroitly,  and  with  so  much  tact  that  Evelyn  never 
suspected  that  he  was  making  a  study  of  her. 

He  could  not  have  told  what  he  expected  to  gain  from 
his  cross-examination  of  her,  but  there  was  about  her  a 
quality  that  aroused  his  curiosity,  and  made  him  anxious 
to  get  some  line  on  her  mental  processes. 

The  tea  was  over,  and  he  had  driven  her  home,  and 
wished  her  good  luck  on  her  opening  performance, 
before  he  realised  that  he  had  come  no  nearer  making 
up  his  mind  about  her  than  he  had  the  night  before 
when  she  sat  by  him  in  the  dark  theatre,  saying  uncon- 
sciously gracious  things  to  him. 

He  sent  her  lilies  of  the  valley  and  orchids,  and  she 
who  had  never  in  her  whole  stage  career  received 
flowers,  was  touched  almost  to  tears,  and  then  filled  with 
an  intense  rapture  that  these  perfectly  beautiful  things 
were  all  her  own.  A  spirit  of  caution  made  her  with- 
hold the  card  from  Ann  Dwight's  curious  eyes. 

The  opening  night  was  over,  and  the  manager  and 
actors  eagerly  awaited  the  morning  papers.  Though  the 
verdict  would  not  decide  the  life  of  the  play,  it  would 
foreshadow  the  opinion  of  other  critics,  and  in  that  way 
give  the  interested  persons  some  idea  of  the  power  and 
appeal  of  the  drama. 

Bratton  Wayne  brought  the  papers  into  his  brother's 

-183- 


The  Least  Resistance 

room,  and  drawing  a  chair  up  by  the  bed  read  the  notices 
aloud. 

The  play  was  an  effort  to  show  the  growing  sense  of 
man's  responsibility  for  his  brother  and  was  a  curious 
mixture  of  New  Thought,  Socialism  and  Melodrama. 
The  papers  agreed  that  it  was  by  no  means  a  remarkable 
play,  but  interpreted  by  such  an  able  company,  should 
enjoy  a  long  and  prosperous  season.  Ridgly  Elaine  car- 
ried off  the  acting  honours,  as  usual ;  Gordon  Wayne  was 
next  in  favour,  followed  by  guarded  mention  of  Miss 
Hartwell's  acting  and  lavish  praise  of  her  gowns. 

"That  will  please  our  great  emotional  actress,"  Gor- 
don said,  with  a  touch  of  maliciousness. 

"Here  is  what  this  fellow  says  about  little  'Evelyn 
Hope' " 

"Her  name  is  Lane?"  Gordon  cut  in,  prosaically. 

"Browning  knew  better.  Curious  that  I  can't  look  at 
her  without  thinking  of  that  other  Evelyn  who  was  like- 
wise of  'spirit,  fire  and  dew/  But  hear  the  critic :  'Jennie 
is  played  by  Miss  Evelyn  Lane,  a  wistful  girl  with  a 
plaintive  voice  and  appealing  eyes.'  That  is  very  good — 
quite  discerning  for  a  critic."  He  looked  up,  and  caught 
his  brother's  eye — they  both  laughed. 

"What  does  the  other  fellow  say  about  us  ?" 

Bratton  picked  up  the  next  paper  and  turned  to  the 
criticism,  but  before  reading  it  he  glanced  down  the 
column. 

"Well,  what  does  he  say  about  'Beautiful  Evelyn 
Hope'  ?"  Gordon  asked. 

"  'Though  Miss  Evelyn  Lane  is  lacking  in  tempera- 
ment, she  is  most  appealing/  Ye  gods !  What  does  he 
expect?  I  suppose  he  wanted  the  child  to  act  all  over 
the  place.  She  doesn't  act  at  all  and  she  is  perfect  in 
the  part." 

"Them  are  strong  words,  Gerald  Stone,"  Gordon  said, 
mockingly. 
—184— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"They  are  none  the  less  true.  I  don't  suppose  she  can 
act,  but  she  can  get  her  personality  over  the  foot- 
lights " 

"And  her  personality  is  appealing  ?" 

"You  know  it  is  yourself,  and  you  know,  too,  that 
three-fourths  the  value  of  acting  is  getting  over  an 
attractive  personality " 

"Ah!"  His  brother  interrupted  him  with  a  heroic 
gesture;  "now  you  begin  to  talk  about  me  art,  and  to 
underrate  it !  What  do  you  know  about  the  art  of  acting 
— you  base  wielder  of  a  best-seller  pen?  But  to  return 
to  the  personality  of  'Evelyn  Hope' — when  did  you  dis- 
cover its  appeal?" 

"Oh,  it's  quickly  discovered.  You  know,  seriously,  I'd 
like  to  know  that  girl's  history." 

"Well,  women  aren't  as  a  rule  reticent  about  them- 
selves— not  to  a  sympathetic  author  man,  at  least,"  Gor- 
don said. 

"I  don't  think  she  could  tell  it — that  is  what  is  so 
interesting.  I  don't  believe  that  she  is  conscious  of  the 
road  down  which  she  has  come.  I  can't  make  up  my 
mind  whether  she  is  unawakened  or  crushed." 

"But  she  is  appealing " 

"Yes,  decidedly,"   Bratton  admitted. 

"Oh,  you  writers !  Now  when  I  see  a  girl  that  attracts 
or  grips  me,  I  being  but  a  man,  say  to  myself,  'well  here 
I  am — in  again,'  but  not  you  fellows — you  talk  about 
their  history,  or  their  starved  soul,  or  cramped  mind  or 
something — come  on  now,  you'd  heap  rather  hold  her 
hand  than  hear  her  history." 

"I'd  like  to  agree  with  you,"  Bratton  said,  "it  would 
simplify  life  greatly."  Then  to  change  the  subject  he 
went  on,  "Evidently  the  play  isn't  a  knock-out,  at  any 
rate  there  isn't  much  in  it  for  you.  Why  don't  you  give 
in  your  notice  and  get  out?" 

"I  know  it  isn't  a  great  part,  but  if  I  get  out,  I'll 

-185- 


The  Least  Resistance 

probably  hang  around  New  York  until  Christmas  time  at 
least — there  is  nothing  going  on  now,  I  might  as  well  pull 
down  this  four  hundred  a  week  that  Tilton  is  paying  me." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  put  on  The  Fox'." 

"Why,  two  months  ago  you  didn't  think  much  of  my 
doing  it." 

"That  was  summer  time — it  is  a  better  time  now — in 
fact  I  believe  you'd  strike  it  right,  and  it  would  get  you 
away  from  these  holy  heroes  and " 

"And  you've  found  the  ideal  girl  for  Maizie "  Gor- 
don said,  with  a  laugh,  "and  you  talking  about  an  imper- 
sonal interest,  wanting  to  know  her  history — ha !  ha !  and 
once  more  ha!  ha!" 

"Go  on  with  your  mirth.  It  may  add  to  it  to  know  that 
I'm  going  to  stick  along  with  you  for  a  few  days — 
now  ha!  ha!" 

Evelyn  read  her  notices  without  a  tinge  of  personal 
feeling,  but  they  made  her  wonder  about  herself — was 
she  wistful,  and  what  was  the  appeal?  She  had  given 
so  little  thought  to  herself  beyond  the  planning  to  make 
things  better.  She  had  lived  very  little  in  her  reactions, 
and  her  mind  was  too  objective  for  introspection  and  self- 
analysis  ;  she  had  never  made  a  mental  image  of  herself, 
but  these  words  "wistful"  and  "appealing"  impressed 
her  and  she  began  to  accent  these  qualities,  making  them 
conscious  and  positive  rather  than  negative  and  uncon- 
scious, thereby  enlarging  their  range,  and  heightening 
their  value. 

Bratton  Wayne  stayed  with  the  company  a  week,  his 
interest  in  Evelyn  obvious  enough  to  give  the  company 
cause  for  talk  and  speculation. 

They  grew  rapidly  to  be  very  good  friends,  and  apart 
from  the  fact  that  she  was  flattered  by  the  attention  of 
so  distinguished  a  man,  she  found  that  he  not  only  inter- 
ested her,  but  she  had  equal  interest  for  him.  He  talked 
to  her  a  great  deal  about  herself,  asked  her  questions, 
— 186- 


The  Least  Resistance 

listened  to  her  every  word,  and  this  was  a  new  experience. 
Even  Hubbard,  who  had  loved  her,  had  never  had  the 
least  curiosity  about  her,  or  been  at  all  concerned  with 
her  mental  processes.  She  began  to  formulate  her 
thoughts,  trying  to  find  words  to  express  vague  ideas, 
and  was  filled  with  a  desire  to  overcome  the  old  inartic- 
ulateness. 

"This  is  such  a  strange  business,"  she  said  to  him 
one  day,  when  he  had  left  the  parlour  car  and  sought  her 
out  in  the  day  coach.  She  had  refused  his  invitation  to 
join  him  in  the  parlour  car,  but  had  readily  consented 
to  lunch  with  him  in  the  diner.  The  logic  of  her  position 
baffled  him,  but  he  yielded  to  it  gracefully.  Over  the 
coffee  he  announced  that  he  was  leaving  for  New  York 
that  night.  After  a  moment's  pause  she  answered,  "This 
is  a  strange  business." 

"Why  so?" 

"Why,  you  go  off  in  a  company,  and  meet  people,  and 
some  you  get  to  know  and  like,  and  as  time  goes  on  you 
know  them  so  well  they  seem  just  a  part  of  you — as  if 
you  had  been  together  always,  or  as  if  there  were  some 
real  tie  between  you.  Then  the  season  closes,  and  you 
are  separated.  For  awhile  they  still  seem  real,  but  grad- 
ually they  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer  until  they  are  like 
people  you  dreamed  about — shadows." 

He  sat  opposite  her,  aquiver  with  interest  and  expect- 
ancy ;  he  seemed  about  to  solve  the  gentle  mystery  of  her 
personality.  He  controlled  his  eagerness  and  said  quietly, 
"One  of  those  shadows  lies  across  your  soul  now,  young 
Evelyn  Hope." 

In  response  to  his  gentleness  a  wistful  smile  lighted 
her  face.  "I  was  married — "  then  she  added,  "not  hap- 
pily, but  it  doesn't  hurt  any  more." 

This  was  news  to  him ;  there  had  seemed  a  quality  aloof 
and  virginal  about  her — a  strong  sex  appeal,  but  one  of 
which  she  was  apparently  unconscious.  But  he  showed 

-187- 


The  Least  Resistance 

no  surprise,  and  after  a  pause  he  said,  "But  that  isn't 
the  shadow  that  is  over  you  when  you  look  out  of  the 
window  a  long  time  lost  in  a  dream  that  ends  in  a  sigh 
of  resignation,  and  that  isn't  the  shadow  that  made  you 
start  the  other  day  when  a  man  in  the  rear  of  the  car 
spoke  aloud  in  a  voice  that  had  a  remnant  of  its  southern 
quality  left." 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide,  amazed  eyes.  "What  a 
detective!  One  is  almost  afraid  to  think  when  you  are 
about." 

"But  I  am  right — there  is  another  shadow?" 

"Yes — another  shadow,  and  subject  to  the  fate  of  all 
shadows." 

"Which  is?" 

"To  grow  dimmer  and  dimmer." 

"I  wonder " 

"I  hope  so,"  and  she  turned  again  to  the  window. 

They  returned  to  the  car,  and  just  before  he  went 
ahead  to  have  his  after-lunch  cigarette  he  said,  "This  is 
my  last  day,  you  are  going  to  promise  to  dine  with  me, 
aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wayne— I " 

"Please." 

"Well— why,  I  should  like  to." 

"I'll  call  for  you  at  six — where?" 

"At  the  Ten  Eyck,"  she  answered,  quickly.  This  was 
a  sudden  change  of  plan,  but  she  had  grown  ashamed  to 
have  him  think  that  she  always  went  to  cheap  hotels. 
The  play  seemed  to  have  caught  on  very  well,  and  perhaps 
there  was  no  need  for  such  stringent  economy  as  she 
had  been  practising. 

The  question  of  something  to  wear  that  would  make 
her  an  attractive  dinner  companion  was  the  next  problem. 
When  her  trunk  had  been  delivered  to  her  room  she  went 
over  her  wardrobe  hoping  against  the  certainty  of  her 
knowledge  to  the  contrary  that  she  would  find  something 
— 188— 


The  Least  Resistance 

that  would  serve.  But  she  was  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment— she  had  no  new  clothes,  and  the  old  ones  were  of 
last  year's  fashion.  So  with  a  sigh  she  put  on  a  fresh 
white  silk  blouse,  and  her  old  carefully  brushed  suit. 

Whatever  she  thought  of  her  clothes  upstairs,  Bratton 
Wayne's  manner  when  he  met  her  in  the  lobby  made  her 
forget  all  about  their  shortcomings.  He  gave  her  his 
entire  attention  without  one  glance  at  the  handsomely 
dressed  women  about  them  in  the  dining  room. 

The  dinner  had  been  ordered  in  advance,  and  was  the 
best  that  the  house  afforded,  and  showed  epicurean 
discrimination.  They  were  in  a  corner,  she  facing  the 
room,  he  opposite  her.  The  lights  were  bright,  the  music 
gay  and  lilting,  the  diners  talking  and  laughing  in  a 
pleasant  subdued  way,  and  in  this  atmosphere  of  luxury 
and  refined  gaiety  Evelyn  felt  herself  expand  mentally, 
and  her  spirits  rose  far  beyond  the  day's  dead  level.  It 
was  so  easy  to  be  cheerful,  confident,  even  vivid  in  such 
an  atmosphere. 

They  talked  of  many  things.  He  told  her  something 
of  the  new  book  that  was  three-quarters  done — only  forty 
thousand  words  to  write,  and  his  annual  contribution  to 
the  world's  literature  would  be  ready  for  the  publisher. 
He  talked  to  her  of  everything  but  herself  until  the  coffee 
was  served,  and  then  as  the  waiter  moved  away  to  leave 
them  for  a  final  getting  together  that  is  the  charm  of 
every  real  dinner,  he  said,  "Tell  me  something  of  your 
life,  Evelyn  Hope?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"Where  were  you  born?" 

"In  Kentucky — near  the  southern  border." 

"Is  your  mother  living?" 

"No,  she  died  when  I  was  fourteen." 

"Was  she  pretty?" 

"Yes,  she  was  beautiful,  and  when  she  was  a  girl  she 
was  the  belle  of  the  county." 

—189— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Was  she  as  beautiful  as  you?"  he  asked. 

"She  was  really  beautiful,  and  you  know  I'm  not,  so 
don't  try  to  flatter  me,"  she  said  with  a  smile. 

"Why  don't  you  think  that  you  are  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  I  look  in  the  glass  often,  and  it  has  never  yet 
said  that  I  was  anything  more  than " 

"It  has  told  you  that  you  are  very  lovely,"  he  said, 
looking  at  her  with  an  impersonal,  appraising  eye,  "of 
course,  not  the  burlesque  chorus  type,  nor  what  the  aver- 
age theatrical  manager  would  consider  a  stunner — you 
are  too  slight,  but  a  poet  might  call  you  divinely  slender. 
You  look  younger  than  you  are,  therefore  you  have 
beauty  of  youth  and  the  poise  of  maturity — you  have  a 
still  beauty."  He  was  looking  through  half-closed  eyes 
at  her,  his  mind  playing  like  a  searchlight  over  her — 
he  felt  the  same  mental  exhilaration  that  came  when  his 
pen  struck  a  rich  vein  in  a  character  study.  "Your 
eyes,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "the  heroism  of  your  life  has 
gone  into  your  eyes — they  are  deep,  and  sad,  and  alluring, 
and — steady — unless,"  he  paused,  "unless  the  something 
that  sleeps  in  them  is  awakened.  I  don't  know  just 
what  it  is  that  sleeps  there,  whether  it  is  passion,  or  ambi- 
tion, or  temper,  or — doom."  He  hesitated  before  the  last, 
not  wishing  to  frighten  her,  but  the  joy  of  rounding  out 
a  sentence  was  not  to  be  denied,  and  he  comforted  him- 
self by  thinking  that  she  would  not  fully  understand. 

"I  believe  you  are  looking  at  me,  and  thinking  up  some 
new  lines  about  the  heroine  of  your  book,"  she  said, 
which  showed  that  she  did  understand  him  better  than 
he  imagined. 

"No,"  he  protested,  "I  didn't  think  it  up  at  all,  it  just 
came  to  me  as  I  looked  at  you — you  interest  me — aren't 
men  generally  interested  in  you?" 

"No,"  she  answered  quickly,  then  added,  "no,  I  think 
not — they  are  usually  kind  to  me — that  is " 

"When  they  aren't  terribly  unkind — is  that  it?"  He 
— 190 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

smiled  as  she  nodded.  "But  your  mouth,  Evelyn  Hope — 
it's  a  queer  little  mouth,  it  contradicts  your  eyes — it 
pouts  most  of  the  time,  and  the  pout  is  an  invitation  to 
kiss  it." 

"Mr.  Wayne !"  she  exclaimed,  and  her  face  flushed. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  I'm  not  asking  you  to  let  me  kiss  it, 
I  am  not  saying  that  it's  a  personal  invitation,  of  course," 
and  the  smile  died  from  his  face.  "I'll  admit  that  I  want 
to  kiss  you  as  much  as  I've  wanted  anything  for  a  long 
time — but  I'm  not  a  good  wanter.  It  would  be  the  most 
wonderful  thing  in  the  world  to  be  swept  off  your  feet 
— to  really  feel " 

"Don't  you  really  feel,  either — I  thought  I  was  the  only 
person  who  didn't — the  only  one  who  had  to  fight  off  'the 
creeping  paralysis' — that's  Mary  Leighton's  phrase,  not 
mine.  I  don't  care  much  one  way  or  another — I  just 
exist,  and  hope  to  make  enough  money  to  keep  on 
existing." 

"That's  only  a  phase  with  you,  at  least  I  think  so.  You 
are  out  of  your  element.  You  were  never  intended  for 
the  stage — you  are  essentially  a  man's  woman,  and 
your  life  will  always  be  incomplete  without  the  mascu- 
line element.  You  have  only  to  reach  out  your  hand  to 
draw  that  element  to  you,  and  therefore  you  may  succeed 
in  this  business,  as  so  many  girls  of  your  type  have.  But 
that  isn't  a  success  worthy  of  you.  I'd  like  to  see  you 
out  of  this  profession,  surrounded  by  comfort,  and  affec- 
tion, and  beauty — those  Botticelli  hands  weren't  made 
for  cheap  gloves,  and  to  do  your  own  laundry  work." 

She  looked  quickly  at  her  hands  resting  on  the  edge  of 
the  table — they  were  nice — strange  how  he  observed 
everything. 

"You  can  feel,  you  will — you  weren't  born  with  a 
microscope  where  your  heart  ought  to  be."  He  was  silent 
after  this,  even  during  the  drive  to  the  theatre. 

When  he  held  out  his  hand  to  say  good-bye,  she  tried 

—191— 


The  Least  Resistance 

to  thank  him  for  his  goodness  to  her,  but  he  wouldn't 
hear. 

"If  we  never  meet  again,  you  know  I  wish  you  the 
best  of  things,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  but  sometimes  we  will  meet — I  haven't  many 
friends,  please  let  me  keep  you." 

"For  just  as  long  as  you  want  me,"  he  answered,  giving 
her  hand  a  final  cordial  pressure. 

The  next  morning  Evelyn  was  in  the  public  library 
looking  up  Botticelli,  and  studying  the  reproductions  of 
his  pictures,  with  special  attention  to  the  hands  of  his 
ladies. 

Soon  after  his  talk  with  Evelyn  at  the  stage  door, 
Bratton  Wayne  left  for  New  York.  He  had  been  away 
several  days  longer  than  he  had  expected,  and  was  already 
behind  on  the  novel  that  he  had  promised  to  have  in  the 
publishers'  hands  by  the  first  of  November.  The  next 
morning  he  went  resolutely  to  work,  but  he  found  it 
impossible  to  pick  up  the  interest,  and  the  first  few  days 
were  profitless.  The  fourth  day  he  ground  out  a  chapter 
only  to  tear  it  up  on  second  reading. 

"I'm  written  out,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  he  cursed 
the  day  that  he  had  followed  Gordon  off  to  the  opening 
of  Van  Horn's  uninteresting  and  unimportant  play.  It 
had  broken  in  on  his  work — "women  like  that  do  get 
under  your  skin,"  and  somewhat  relieved  by  this  admis- 
sion, he  sat  down  and  wrote  her  a  note,  asking  if  she 
would  dine  with  him  when  the  company  stopped  over 
in  New  York  next  Sunday  on  its  way  to  Washington. 

Evelyn  stopping  at  the  mail  box  in  the  Hartford 
theatre  was  surprised  to  find  a  letter,  an  occasional  one 
from  Mary  was  all  that  ever  came  to  her.  She  read  it 
through  and  smiled.  She  remembered  his  words,  "if  we 
never  meet  again."  She  had  known  all  along  that  they 
would  meet  again,  but  scarcely  so  soon,  scarcely  by  so 
much  effort  on  his  part.  But  it  was  kind  of  him,  and  it 
— 192 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

made  the  Sunday  in  New  York  a  thing  to  look  forward 
to,  not  dread  for  its  loneliness. 

She  wished — oh  how  fervently  she  wished — that  she 
had  some  new  and  beautiful  clothes  to  wear.  He  would 
take  her  to  some  charming  place,  there  would  be  a  de- 
licious dinner,  music,  flowers,  beautifully  dressed  women, 
and  she  so  shabby,  so  out  of  the  picture  in  her  old  suit, 
and  the  white  silk  blouse.  Then  she  looked  down  at  her 
hands,  and  wondered  if  he  who  seemed  to  observe  every- 
thing would  see  that  the  work  of  keeping  fair  and  soft 
the  Botticelli  hands  had  begun.  No  more  cheap  rough 
gloves,  no  more  harsh  soap,  no  more  neglect  of  the  lovely 
almond-shaped  nails — her  hands,  at  least,  should  be  as 
well  cared  for  and  beautiful  as  though  she  were  worth 
a  million. 


—193- 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

THE  Sunday  in  New  York  was  a  great  success.  Brat- 
ton  Wayne  called  for  her  at  three  and  they  drove  all 
afternoon  in  his  large  open  car.  For  the  first  time  Evelyn 
saw  something  of  the  beauty  of  the  great  city.  They 
circled  the  Park,  crossed  over  to  Riverside  Drive,  fol- 
lowed it  up  the  Hudson  until  night  drove  them  home 
with  the  thought  of  dinner. 

All  the  world  seemed  driving  this  glorious  autumn 
day.  The  air  was  keen  and  fine ;  the  river  softly  bright 
under  the  late  afternoon  sun;  the  trees  on  the  Jersey 
shore  made  the  Palisades  hills  brown  and  red  and  gold. 

Evelyn,  sensitive  to  every  phase  of  beauty,  was  intoxi- 
cated by  this  wealth  of  loveliness,  and  her  face  as 
Bratton  glanced  at  it  from  time  to  time  was  radiant  with 
a  new  and  vivid  joy.  The  big,  silent,  swift-rolling  car 
that  responded  to  the  least  touch  of  the  chauffeur,  the 
sweet  wind  that  whipped  her  face,  the  friendliness  of 
the  man  at  her  side  who  was  giving  her  this  great  treat — 
all  seemed  too  good  to  be  quite  real. 

They  dined  at  the  old  French  hotel  on  the  lower  part  of 
the  Avenue.  The  foreign  atmosphere  charmed  her,  and 
she  made  him  feel  that  he  could  not  have  taken  her  any- 
where that  would  have  given  her  half  so  much  pleasure. 

Her  enjoyment  afforded  him  a  most  agreeable  sensa- 
tion, and  her  way  of  thanking  him  made  him  want  to 
go  on  and  on  doing  things  for  her. 

All  during  the  drive  and  the  dinner  Bratton's  mind 

was  playing  about  her,  ceasing  only  when  it  turned  its 

penetrating  flash  inward  to  study  her  effect  on  him.   He 

had  wondered  if  he  would  find  her  as  pleasing  as  in  the 

—194— 


The  Least  Resistance 

days  of  separation  he  had  imagined  her.  He  found  her 
even  more  so.  He  knew  now  how  much  he  had  missed 
her;  how  much  he  had  wanted  to  see  her.  But  what 
was  the  secret  of  her  charm?  She  was  by  no  means  a 
mental  type,  and  yet  she  understood  him,  or  at  least  she 
adapted  herself  to  him,  and  he  wasn't  an  easy  man  to 
please — many  women  had  tried,  few  had  succeeded.  And 
yet  this  girl,  a  chance  acquaintance  who  had  made  no 
effort  to  fascinate  him,  had  gotten  a  hold  on  him  that 
he  couldn't  shake  off — he  wasn't  sure  that  he  wanted  to 
shake  it  off. 

Evelyn,  all  unconscious  of  the  workings  of  his  mind, 
was  enjoying  her  dinner,  and  watching  with  interest  the 
other  diners  when  he  was  not  claiming  her  attention. 

"May  I  ask  you  a  leading  question  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  turning  to  him. 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  in  this  business?" 

"Am  I  as  bad  as  that?" 

"You  aren't  bad  at  all,  but  I  just  want  to  know." 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 
"How  can  I  tell?  I  can't  do  anything  else,  and  I  have 
to  live." 

"You  don't  like  it?" 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  it,  and  I'm  sure  that  isn't 
the  right  state  of  mind.  I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  can 
expect  to  get  along  when  I  haven't  a  real  love  for  the 
work." 

"It's  a  bad  business  for  a  girl  like  you,"  he  said, 
soberly. 

"It's  hard  on  all  of  us.  I  have  a  friend — she  is  fine 
and  strong,  and  she  is  a  good  actress.  I  think  she  is  even 
a  great  actress — so  direct,  and  her  spirit  is  so  big  it  makes 
even  those  stupid  melodrama  heroines  seem  real  and  won- 
derful—=-but  she  can't  get  on,  she  has  worked  for 

years "  She  told  him  the  story  of  Mary  Leighton  and 

her  struggles,  and  her  hopes,  and  ambitions,  and  how  she 

—195— 


The  Least  Resistance 

had  kept  faith  and  courage  burning  through  all  the  lean 
years. 

"She  thinks  about  acting,  and  talks  about  it,  and 
studies  all  the  time — don't  you  think  she  is  bound  to 
arrive  some  day?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Yes,  if  she  has  the  stuff  in  her  she  is  bound  to  come 
into  her  own,  but  a  certain  young  woman  with  appealing 
eyes  and  an  inviting  mouth  will  get  there  long  before 
Mary  does." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh,  but  she  remembered  this 
remark  all  through  the  week  that  followed,  and  often  she 
had  to  fly  to  it  for  comfort. 

Evelyn's  position  in  the  company  was  none  too  pleas- 
ant. Miss  Hartwell  had  never  forgiven  her  for  the  sup- 
port that  Gordon  Wayne  had  given  her  at  the  rehearsal, 
and  the  attention  of  Bratton  had  been  another  offence 
to  the  star.  She  let  slip  no  opportunity  for  showing  her 
disapproval  of  this  girl  who  had  incurred  her  displeasure. 
When  Miss  Hartwell  was  not  on  the  stage  or  in  her  room 
changing  her  clothes,  she  stood  in  the  wings  and  watched 
with  a  cold,  critical  eye  the  work  of  the  members  of 
the  company.  After  the  final  curtain  the  stage  manager 
would  make  the  rounds  of  the  dressing  rooms,  and  read 
from  a  pad  Miss  Hartwell's  suggestions.  He  always 
stopped  at  Evelyn's  door. 

This  form  of  refined  torture  made  her  nervous  and 
unhappy,  and  robbed  her  acting  of  all  naturalness  and 
spontaneity.  On  Wednesday  she  went  on  so  anxious 
and  uncertain  that  her  voice  died  in  her  throat,  she 
fidgeted  with  her  hands,  and  even  stumbled  in  her 
lines. 

Unfortunately  Tilton  was  on  from  New  York  and  saw 
the  performance. 

After  the  act  he  appeared  at  Evelyn's  dressing  room 
door.  In  answer  to  his  knock  she  opened  it. 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?" 
— 196— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Tilton — I'm  afraid  I  can't  go  on 
with  the  part.  They  have  corrected  me  so  many  times 
that  I've  lost  all  idea  of  it." 

"Who  the  h — ,  why  you  were  all  right  in  Albany,  why 
didn't  you  stay  that  way  ?" 

"Every  night  I've  been  told  that  I  wasn't  doing  it 
right." 

"Well,  forget  it  and  go  back  to  the  old  way — that's 
a  good  girl."  He  gave  her  a  pat  on  the  shoulder  and 
turned  to  descend  the  stairs. 

Miss  Hartwell  was  standing  in  one  of  the  wings  ready 
to  make  her  entrance.  Her  position  commanded  a  view 
of  the  tiers  of  dressing  rooms  and  she  saw  the  friendly 
pat  on  the  shoulder.  Her  scene  over,  she  sent  for  her 
husband  and  demanded  Evelyn's  dismissal  from  the 
company.  She  refused  positively  to  go  on  unless  her 
wishes  were  complied  with  immediately. 

In  this  scene  she  overplayed  her  part.  Tilton  was 
already  out  of  patience.  He  had  put  a  great  deal  of 
money  into  the  play,  they  were  doing  no  business,  the 
critics  were  not  encouraging,  and  the  experts  he  had 
had  down  to  look  it  over  had  declared  against  it.  It  was 
an  expensive  company,  and  he  stood  to  lose  a  small  for- 
tune, and  with  Winnie  proving  unreasonable  and  ungrate- 
ful he  was  not  inclined  to  go  on. 

"All  right,  I'll  give  her  her  notice,"  he  said  meaningly, 
and  left  the  dressing  room. 

The  next  morning  he  returned  to  New  York,  leaving 
instructions  with  his  manager  to  post  the  notice  closing 
the  company  one  week  from  Saturday  night  in  Balti- 
more. 

This  was  scarcely  a  surprise  to  the  actors;  they  had 
been  expecting  it  for  some  time,  and  the  week  in  Wash- 
ington showed  that  the  play  could  not  live.  The  criticisms 
were  unfavourable,  and  night  after  night  the  business 

—197— 


The  Least  Resistance 

grew  lighter.  Miss  Hartwell  gave  out  a  report  that  they 
were  closing  in  order  to  reorganise  the  company. 

As  Evelyn  read  the  closing  notice  she  was  conscious 
of  conflicting  emotions.  It  would  be  a  relief  to  be  away 
from  her  present  unhappy  position,  but  it  meant  New 
York  without  work,  and  perhaps  a  long  heart-breaking 
time  before  she  could  get  it. 

She  had  a  letter  from  Bratton  Wayne  saying  that  she 
was  not  to  mind ;  that  she  would  get  a  much  better  posi- 
tion, and  that  he  would  tell  everybody  he  knew  what  a 
fine  little  actress  she  was.  Incidentally  he  claimed  her 
for  a  ride  and  dinner  the  first  day  she  was  in  town. 

"I  should  have  run  down  to  Baltimore,  but  neither  you 
nor  Gordon  suggested  my  coming  on  for  Thanksgiving 
dinner,  so  I  accepted  a  stupid  invitation  here,  and  shall  be 
duly  miserable  and  hope  you  both  will  suffer  for  your 
lack  of  thought  of  me."  This  was  the  postscript  to  the 
letter. 

It  amused  her  and  she  took  it  down  to  Gordon  Wayne's 
dressing  room  to  read  to  him.  He  met  it  with  the  sugges- 
tion that  she  dine  with  him  on  Thanksgiving,  and  at  the 
table  they  would  write  out  a  night  letter  to  the  absent  one. 

"I  should  love  to  do  that,"  she  said. 

"Good,  we'll  write  him  a  message  that'll  make  him  wild 
with  jealousy!"  Gordon  answered. 

"Oh,  scarcely  that — but  let's  do  it,  anyway,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile. 

That  night  in  her  hotel  room  she  re-read  his  letter. 
It  was  good  to  be  remembered,  and  pleasant  to  think  that 
instead  of  the  old  lonely  New  York  there  would  be 
some  one  who  thought  of  her,  and  waited  for  her.  She 
wondered  why  he  liked  her?  How  was  it  possible  that 
a  man  who  must  know  so  many  charming  women  should 
so  signally  prefer  her? 

At  first  it  had  seemed  most  remarkable,  but  Bratton's 
repeated  reference  to  her  "appeal,"  that  mysterious 
—198— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"quality"  that  he  recognised  but  couldn't  explain,  was 
beginning  to  bear  fruit  in  her  mind.  She  was  slowly 
re-forming  her  opinion  of  herself.  Now  her  thoughts 
shot  back  to  other  people,  and  she  realised  that  they  had 
sensed  a  "something"  about  her,  a  bit  out  of  the  ordinary. 
Harmon,  in  the  old  days  when  she  was  so  crushed,  had 
said  that  there  was  a  quality — he  had  used  the  same 
word — "like  the  frail,  big-eyed  stars  that  twinkled  in  the 
theatrical  firmament." 

Other  things  said  by  people  to  which  she  had  given 
little  thought  at  the  time  came  back  to  strengthen  this 
new  appreciation  of  herself.  Hubbard — but  as  her 
thoughts  swung  around  to  him,  she  got  up  and  moved 
about  the  room  to  shake  them  off. 

The  old  feeling  of  loss,  the  ache  for  the  kind,  strong 
arms  about  her,  the  tenderness  of  his  love,  made  remem- 
bering a  pain  not  to  be  endured.  There  were  times  when 
in  the  midst  of  other  thoughts  and  activities,  a  memory 
of  him,  of  something  sweet  and  close  between  them  would 
surge  up  in  her  mind,  making  her  heart  flutter,  her  brain 
spin,  and,  passing,  leave  her  cold  and  sick  for  hours. 

All  the  other  suffering  of  her  life  had  grown  dim, 
and  seemed  like  a  dream,  but  the  least  touching  on  the 
western  tour  brought  back  all  the  torment  of  the  days 
that  preceded  her  illness.  And  since  she  could  not  remem- 
ber without  suffering,  she  fought  with  all  the  strength 
of  her  practical  nature  to  put  every  thought  of  Hubbard 
out  of  her  life. 

The  interest  and  attention  of  Bratton  Wayne  helped 
her  to  carry  out  this  resolution.  He  touched  only  the 
surface  of  her  consciousness,  but  she  enjoyed  him  greatly. 
And  on  her  return  he  saw  that  she  had  every  chance 
to  enjoy  his  companionship. 

Three  times  a  week  they  dined  together.  Evelyn  soon 
grew  to  know  well  the  restaurants  of  the  city — the 
splendour  of  the  Broadway  Lobster  Palaces ;  the  impres- 

—199— 


The  Least  Resistance 

sive  elegance  of  Fifth  Avenue ;  the  cafes  favoured  by 
the  artistic  and  literary  world,  where  the  talk  and  smoke 
were  thick  enough  to  cut.  In  these  latter  places  Evelyn 
felt  more  at  home,  for  here  there  was  no  formality  of 
dress,  and  she  did  not  feel  uncomfortable  in  her  simple 
clothes,  but  had  her  wardrobe  been  to  her  liking  she  would 
have  much  preferred  the  Fifth  Avenue  district.  The 
spacious  dining  rooms,  the  soft  lights,  the  silent  waiters, 
and  the  well  modulated  voices  of  the  beautifully  dressed 
women,  pleased  her  far  more  than  the  garish  splendour 
of  Broadway,  and  the  Bohemianism  of  the  down-town 
places. 

The  most  immediate  effect  of  this  constant  dining  out 
was  the  cultivation  of  her  taste  to  the  point  where  the 
places  patronised  when  she  was  alone  grew  well  nigh 
intolerable. 

Bratton  placed  his  car  at  her  disposal,  but  she  never 
took  advantage  of  it  except  when  he  made  a  special  point 
of  it.  They  went  together  for  long  rides;  they  visited 
the  art  gallery;  they  attended  the  theatre  and  Evelyn 
met  a  number  of  well  known  men  and  women. 

But  through  all  of  this  pleasure  and  excitement  was 
the  realisation  that  in  a  very  short  time  her  bank  account 
would  be  exhausted  unless  she  got  work  soon,  and  at 
present  there  was  no  prospect  of  an  engagement. 

Evelyn  was  no  longer  an  industrious  seeker.  It  was 
growing  daily  more  difficult  to  haunt  the  managers' 
offices  and  the  agencies,  and  several  times  instead  of  wait- 
ing about  all  afternoon  on  a  mere  chance  of  seeing  a 
manager  she  went  off  with  Bratton  to  an  afternoon  con- 
cert or  a  drive. 

After  an  elaborate  dinner,  the  theatre,  and  supper 
afterwards  it  was  not  easy  to  crawl  out  of  bed  the  next 
morning  to  make  the  rounds.  She  would  persuade  her- 
self that  she  could  accomplish  as  much  in  the  afternoon. 
This  did  not  happen  often,  and  each  time  it  did  she 
— 200 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

reproached  herself  for  her  indolence,  and  vowed  she 
would  not  yield  to  it  again. 

At  times  it  was  almost  unbelievable  that  she  had  so 
little  money;  she  had  somehow  such  a  consciousness 
of  possessing  a  great  deal — this  was  only  the  reflex  of 
Bratton  Wayne's  prosperity,  but  she  failed  to  under- 
stand it. 

The  year  wore  on  to  its  close,  and  her  money  dwindled 
with  such  rapidity  that  the  old  terror  of  the  future  came 
back,  blotting  out  all  of  the  new-found  happiness. 

Of  course  the  money  would  have  lasted  longer,  but  it 
had  been  necessary  to  spend  some  of  it  for  clothes  since 
she  could  not  go  about  with  Bratton  entirely  shabby.  She 
had  eased  her  conscience  by  saying  that  she  would  be 
more  apt  to  get  a  good  engagement  if  she  were  well 
dressed.  But  the  new  clothes  did  not  seem  to  better  her 
chances  at  all,  though  they  did  make  her  feel  a  great 
deal  more  comfortable  when  she  went  out  with  Bratton 
Wayne. 

A  natural  pride  kept  her  from  speaking  of  her  anxie- 
ties to  him,  but  there  was  at  times  a  worried,  harassed 
look  in  her  eyes  that  made  him  suspect  the  difficulties 
which  surrounded  her.  He  regretted  genuinely  any 
trouble  that  came  to  her.  He  should  have  liked  to  make 
her  some  offer  of  help,  but  she  was  such  a  reticent,  proud 
little  person  he  was  afraid  that  she  would  resent  it.  He 
really  was  not  anxious  that  she  secure  an  engagement,  for 
that  would  take  her  away,  and  she  had  grown  to  be  very 
important  to  his  happiness. 

In  analysing  his  own  emotions,  he  admitted  that  in  a 
way  he  was  in  love  with  her.  He  cared  for  her  as  much 
as  he  was  capable  of  caring  for  any  one,  at  least  any 
woman;  his  affection  for  his  brother  was  a  very  real 
thing,  but  women  somehow  had  always  failed  to  grip 
him  hard.  But  Evelyn  suited  him,  there  was  no  denying 
that;  and,  what  was  more  remarkable,  she  interested 

— 2OI — 


The  Least  Resistance 

him.  He  liked  to  think  that  he  was  interested  in  her 
as  a  "type." 

Up  to  this  time  his  novels  had  been  things  of  plot  and 
action,  and,  like  most  of  his  craft,  he  yearned  to  venture 
into  the  fields  of  the  psychology  of  character.  In  Evelyn 
he  felt  that  he  had  struck  a  character  rich  in  possibilities. 
If  he  could  get  her  "flavour"  into  a  book  it  ought  to  be 
a  new  note  in  American  literature ;  something  away  from 
the  conventional  heroine ;  away  from  belligerent  feminism. 
It  would  be — and  as  the  book  shaped  itself  and  the  thrill 
of  creation  crept  over  him,  he  realised  how  necessary 
she  was  to  its  achievement. 

How  could  he  hold  her  ?  Immediately  a  plan  presented 
itself.  He  tried  to  put  it  by,  but  met  with  small  success. 
It  came  again  and  again,  and  soon  he  knew  that  it  was 
only  a  question  of  time  before  he  laid  it  before  her. 

The  weeks  wore  on.  Christmas  passed,  the  New  Year 
dawned,  and  January  dragged  its  weary  length  across 
Evelyn's  life.  February  found  her  without  work,  and 
between  her  and  want  the  sum  of  five  dollars. 

She  thought  of  all  the  money  that  Bratton  Wayne 
spent  on  her — the  dinner  the  night  before — why  she 
could  have  lived  a  week  on  its  cost.  She  remembered 
with  shame  her  feeling  as  she  saw  the  generous  tip  he 
gave  the  waiter.  He  had  so  much,  life  was  so  easy 
and  comfortable  for  him,  and  for  her  nothing  but 
anxiety,  and  a  prospect  too  dreadful  to  dwell  on. 

With  the  urge  of  the  present  situation,  she  attacked  the 
agencies  and  managers  vigorously,  but  her  morning  was 
profitless,  and  she  returned  home  depressed  and  weary. 

In  the  afternoon  she  went  over  to  Jersey  City  to  inter- 
view a  moving  picture  man,  but  he  wanted  a  girl  who 
could  ride  and  swim,  and  wasn't  afraid  of  firearms.  She 
asked  desperately  if  he  couldn't  give  her  something  to  do, 
and  he  answered  that  if  she  wanted  to  come  over  next 
week  she  could  "supe"  in  a  big  picture  he  was  going 
— 202 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

to  do,  and  he  would  give  her  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  day 
and  her  lunch.  She  thanked  him  and  hurried  home. 

Her  dinner  that  night  consisted  of  crackers  and  the 
last  of  a  basket  of  fruit  Bratton  had  sent  her.  After- 
wards she  bundled  up  and  walked  swiftly  through  the 
wind-swept  streets  to  bring  on  an  exhaustion  that  would 
induce  sleep. 

Her  mind  reverted  to  the  doctrine  of  cheer  and  hope 
that  Dr.  Holt  had  given  her.  She  assured  herself  over 
and  over  that  something  would  turn  up — something  had 
to  happen.  But  fear  had  clutched  her  and  was  not  to 
be  shaken  off.  Then  suddenly  she  paused  for  a  second, 
bent  her  head,  and  hurried  on  like  a  frightened  animal. 
She  had  passed  within  two  feet  of  Bob. 

Once  in  her  room  she  took  from  the  shelf  of  the 
improvised  closet  a  bottle  of  wine  that  had  come  in 
Bratton's  New  Year's  fruit  basket.  She  had  never  opened 
it,  but  now  she  felt  the  need  of  a  stimulant.  She  was 
cold  and  sick  and  hysterical. 

The  rich  old  wine  warmed  her,  sent  the  blood  coursing 
through  her  veins,  lifted  the  weight  from  her  spirit,  con- 
soled and  cheered  her. 

Gradually  the  emotional  storm  subsided,  and  one 
thought  rose  triumphant  over  the  others.  She  was  free 
of  Bob  and  all  he  stood  for ;  free  to  fight  her  own  fight ; 
to  win  or  lose  as  she  must,  but  not  hampered  and 
crushed  by  a  hostile  personality. 

In  the  fleeting  glimpse  she  had  caught  the  inevitable 
brown  derby — as  usual  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  she 
was  immediately  conscious  that  he  had  been  drinking 
— of  all  this  she  was  free!  She  forgot  her  desperate 
condition,  and  a  deep  sleep  of  gratefulness  descended 
on  her. 

But  the  next  morning  the  problem  of  living  was  before 
her,  and  again  she  went  forth  to  the  managers  and  agents. 
There  was  a  new  anxiety  in  her  heart — she  must  not 

—203— 


The  Least  Resistance 

meet  Bob.  Her  eyes  swept  the  crowds  on  the  streets, 
and  she  entered  no  office  until  she  made  sure  that  he 
was  not  to  be  seen. 

From  ten  in  the  morning  until  five  in  the  afternoon 
Evelyn  was  active  in  her  search  for  work.  There  was 
a  long  wait  to  see  a  man  who  wanted  a  girl  for  a  Cali- 
fornia stock  company;  there  were  two  interviews  with 
vaudeville  people — one  with  an  untried  act,  the  other 
thought  her  too  short  for  his  requirements. 

In  and  out  of  the  buildings  along  Broadway  and  its 
intersecting  streets  she  hurried,  driven  by  the  bayonet  of 
necessity.  At  noon  she  had  a  bowl  of  soup,  and  by  five 
she  was  too  hungry  and  tired  for  further  effort. 

With  great  exertion  she  climbed  the  stairs,  and  once  in 
her  room  dropped  on  the  bed,  too  worn  physically  to 
resist  the  terror  that  was  gnawing  her  soul. 

What  would  become  of  her?  She  couldn't  pay  next 
week's  rent.  There  would  soon  be  no  money  for  food, 
and  no  prospect  of  work — there  was  even  no  one  from 
whom  she  could  borrow.  Bratton  Wayne  would  lend  her 
money,  but  she  could  never  ask  him,  and  there  was  no 
one  else. 

"Why,  why  is  it  always  so  hard  for  me — I  can't  get 
on— I  can't." 

Through  her  window  she  could  see  the  lights  of  the 
big  hotel  across  the  way.  It  was  the  dinner  hour  and 
the  crowds  were  gathering.  There  was  music,  well- 
dressed  people,  warmth,  and  gaiety. 

Her  room  was  dark,  and  it  was  cold.  The  poor  fur- 
nace in  the  basement  was  unable  to  send  up  heat  to  the 
top  of  the  house.  Evelyn  shivered  in  her  coat,  but  she 
made  no  effort  to  draw  the  couch  cover  over  her — a 
little  more  suffering  didn't  matter. 

She  heard  her  name  called  from  downstairs,  and  go- 
ing to  the  door,  the  Irish  maid  called  up  that  she  was 
wanted  on  the  'phone. 
— 204 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

Evelyn  hurried  down,  and  was  glad  to  hear  the  friendly 
voice  of  Bratton.  He  had  tried  three  times  to  get  her — 
would  she  be  good  enough  to  dine  with  him?  He  had 
worked  so  hard  all  day  that  it  would  be  a  charity  for 
her  to  come.  She  would  be  glad  to  come — he  would 
call  for  her  in  half  an  hour.  She  rushed  upstairs  reso- 
lutely, putting  by  her  woes,  and  dressed  for  dinner. 

In  her  effort  to  throw  off  her  depression  she  was 
gayer  than  he  had  ever  known  her.  For  the  first  time 
she  joined  him  in  a  cocktail,  and  the  unusual  stimulant 
flew  to  her  head,  making  her  vivacious  and  commu- 
nicative. 

"Must  have  gotten  a  good  engagement  to-day  ?"  he  said 
over  the  oysters. 

"Good  engagement — I  shall  never  work  again." 

"No?" 

"No  one  will  have  me — Miss  Hartwell  put  the  curse 
on  me — very  soon  I  shall  be  playing  the  park  benches." 
Her  eyes  were  reckless.  "I've  tried,  but  if  Fate  means 
me  to  do  that — why,  all  right!" 

"You  don't  mean "  he  began. 

"Nothing,"  she  cut  in,  "and  let's  not  spoil  this  dinner 
with  talking  about  'yobs' — I  have  all  day  to  think  of 
that,"  she  added  with  a  sudden  dropping  of  her  high 
spirits. 

For  some  time  there  was  silence  between  them,  and 
when  the  talk  was  resumed  it  was  of  other  matters, 
but  all  through  the  dinner  the  old  plan  was  shaping 
itself  in  Bratton's  mind,  and  striving  to  find  words  for 
expression. 

"Evelyn  Hope,"  he  said  at  last,  leaning  over  the  table 
towards  her,  "I  don't  flatter  myself  that  you  care  the 
least  about  me,  but  I'd  try  to  make  you  happy,  if  you'd 
let  me." 

There  was  surprise  in  the  eyes  that  she  raised  to  him. 

—205— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Any  possibility  of  his  caring  seriously  had  never  oc- 
curred to  her. 

"You  are  feeling  sorry  for  me,  and  I  don't  want  that," 
she  said. 

"No,  that  isn't  it,"  he  answered.  "From  the  very  first 
you  have  attracted  me — remember  at  the  dress  rehearsal 
when  you  sat  out  front  with  me— there  was  something 
fragrant  and  wistful  about  you  that  was  irresistible.  I 
want  to  go  abroad  for  a  year  to  work  on  a  novel  with 
a  French  background.  I  don't  want  to  go  without  you 
— won't  you  come  along?  It  would  be  wonderful  for 
me,  and  I'd  try  to  make  it  so  for  you." 

She  wasn't  making  it  easy  for  him — looking  at  him 
with  her  large,  sad,  questioning  eyes.  It  was  hard  to 
go  on — he  had  a  horror  of  her  thinking  him  a  vulgar 
intriguer.  His  feeling  for  her  was  the  best  he  could 
give ;  his  offer  the  only  one  he  could  make. 

"I'd  ask  you  to  marry  me,"  he  went  on,  "but  Mrs. 
Wayne  has  never  had  the  tact  to  divorce  me,  though  we 

have  been  separated  for  three  years — so — so "  There 

was  still  no  answer  from  her,  and  he  went  on,  striving 
to  make  his  attitude  clear.  "You  know  that  I  have 
the  greatest  respect  and  regard  for  you,  Evelyn,  and  I 
do  want  you  out  of  this  business.  You  aren't  the  least 
suited  to  it,  and  you  can't  win  out  in  it  alone.  There 
will  have  to  be  some  man — I'd  hate  that,  and  so  would 
you.  You  would  never  be  anything  but  sweet  and  ex- 
quisite to  me,  and  of  course  there  would  be  a  financial 
settlement  that  would  make  you  absolutely  free  when- 
ever you  wanted  to  be.  I  don't  ask  much — just  a  little 
of  your  affection.  I'll  take  you  away  for  all  time  from 
these  nagging,  sickening  troubles  that  wear  you  out. 
You  were  born  for  beauty,  and  affluence,  and  the  soft, 
sweet-scented  places  of  life." 

Her  elbow  was  on  the  table,  her  chin  resting  in  the 
palm  of  her  hand.  Not  for  one  second  had  her  eyes 
— 206 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

shifted  from  his  face — and  the  eyes,  at  first  sad  and 
questioning,  had  grown  bright  and  tense  in  expression. 
But  he  couldn't  read  the  expression,  and  as  he  talked 
it  was  without  any  knowledge  of  the  effect  he  was  pro- 
ducing. One  moment  he  expected  her  to  burst  out  in 
indignation  at  the  insult  he  offered,  again  he  had  a  fleet- 
ing thought  that  she  would  say  in  her  quick,  breathless 
way:  "I'll  come." 

He  knew  that  her  mind  was  acting,  that  she  was  fol- 
lowing every  word,  but  he  could  not  tell  that  behind 
that  enigmatic  face  a  busy  brain  was  asking:  "Why 
not — why  not  ?" 

There  was  no  one  to  care,  and,  if  they  did,  what  of 
it?  There  was  no  other  helping  hand  in  the  world.  She 
had  tried,  oh,  so  hard !  and  she  knew  that  no  matter  how 
she  struggled  it  would  always  be  so — that  for  each  step 
forward  there  would  be  the  long  drop  back.  She  had 
no  real  ambition  to  act,  it  was  just  a  way  to  earn  a 
living — a  most  uncertain,  heart-breaking  way. 

He  offered  her  certainty,  ease,  rest,  and  beauty.  She 
liked  him,  she  could  learn  from  him.  Even  if  he  grew 
tired  of  her,  she  would  return  to  the  struggle  better 
fortified.  She  could  study,  make  herself  worth  while — 
develop  that  charm  which  he  talked  of  so  often. 

Against  all  of  this  was  an  inherent  dislike  for  the 
illicit,  and  the  training  of  her  youth  in  conventional 
morality.  Then  he  didn't  really  love  her,  at  least  not 
ardently.  She  did  not  know  that  for  this  reason  she 
stood  a  better  chance  with  him,  but  it  would  have  been 
easier  for  him  had  he  been  able  to  sweep  her  along 
with  eloquence  and  ardour. 

Had  he  reminded  her  that  her  life  was  her  own,  that 
she  had  a  right  to  make  it  good — a  right  to  comfort 
and  joy;  reminded  her  that  she  had  been  crushed  in 
her  efforts  to  follow  the  conventions — take  now  the  good 
the  gods  offer — take  a  chance! — he  might  thereby  have 

— 207 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

touched  the  latent  recklessness  in  her;  have  aroused 
her  courage. 

But  it  was  a  new  and  baffling  situation.  Convention 
said :  "You  have  been  insulted — resent  it !"  Instinct,  the 
female  instinct  for  protection,  said :  "It  is  your  chance — 
why  not  take  it?" 

"You  aren't  cross  with  me?"  he  asked  when  she  did 
not  answer. 

"No,"  she  said,  "but  I  couldn't 

"Why  not ;  because  you  think  it  wicked  ?"  Then,  with- 
out waiting  for  her  reply,  he  went  on :  "Don't  you  know 
— doesn't  something  tell  you  that  only  the  spirit  which 
animates  can  make  such  a  relation  wicked?  I'm  no  de- 
signing man  who  wants  to  steal  your  youth  and  inno- 
cence. I  want  you,  but  I  want,  too,  your  happiness. 
I  want  to  see  you  sheltered,  and  protected." 

"I  know,  but " 

"Don't  decide  now — think  it  over.  I  have  to  run  down 
to  Philadelphia  to-morrow  but  I'll  be  home  Wednesday. 
Suppose  you  dine  with  me  Wednesday  evening  and  tell 
me  then." 

Her  eyes,  puzzled  and  tense,  were  still  on  his  face  as 
her  lips  framed  "All  right." 

"Now,"  he  said  in  a  different  tone,  "what  shall  it  be, 
cafe  parfait  or  the  inevitable  French  pastry?" 

"Neither — just  coffee,"  she  answered. 

They  talked  of  inconsequential  things  until  he  said 
good  night  at  the  door  of  the  theatrical  rooming-house. 
He  held  her  hand  a  moment  longer  than  usual.  "Eve- 
lyn, please  try  to  make  it  'Yes/  "  he  said. 

And  at  three  o'clock  that  night  she  made  her  decision. 
Made  it  after  hours  of  thought  and  speculation ;  after  a 
resume  of  the  life  behind  her,  and  the  future  ahead; 
after  the  memory  of  Bob,  and  the  poverty  and  sordid- 
ness  of  their  union,  the  struggle  since,  the  poverty  again 
and  uncertainty — the  consciousness  that  time  was  flying, 
—208— 


The  Least  Resistance 

that  she  would  wither  early,  that  ill-health  and  anxiety 
would  soon  wear  out  her  fragile  constitution,  and  that 
for  her  there  would  be  an  end  like  young  Baker's. 

Then  came  a  vision  of  France,  of  Paris — the  pleasant 
surroundings,  the  beautiful  clothes,  all  the  things  that 
money  could  provide,  but  above  everything  the  rest, 
the  peace  from  the  appalling  conditions  of  her  present 
life. 

These  two  lines  of  thought  opposed  each  other  through 
the  still  watches  of  the  night,  and  as  the  clock  in  the 
room  below  struck  its  ghostly  three,  Evelyn  said  to 
the  waiting  darkness :  "I'll  go  with  him."  A  few  minutes 
later  she  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

AFTER  reaching  her  decision,  Evelyn  slept  well,  and 
it  was  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  before  she 
opened  her  eyes.  She  lay  still,  hating  to  leave  the  warmth 
of  her  bed  for  the  certain  cold  of  her  room,  but  at  last 
with  an  effort  she  rose  and,  throwing  open  the  old- 
fashioned  inside  shutters,  saw  the  world  below  white  with 
snow  and  the  air  filled  with  flying  flakes. 

She  shivered  in  her  thin  gown  and  crept  back  into 
bed.  She  had  an  appointment  at  an  agent's  for  eleven 
o'clock,  but  that  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  Never  again 
would  she  struggle  through  wind  and  weather,  wait  in 
cold,  cheerless  offices  to  see  a  man  who  in  his  turn 
would  dismiss  her  with:  "You're  not  the  type."  Right 
or  wrong,  for  good  or  evil,  she  was  free  of  the  old 
life. 

In  the  midst  of  her  elation  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  the  voice  of  Maggie,  the  Irish  maid,  saying: 
"I  brought  up  a  letter  for  ye." 

A  letter — an  occasional  one  from  Mary,  or  a  card  from 
an  agency — nothing  else  ever  came.  For  a  moment  there 
was  a  clutching  fear — suppose  it  was  some  word  that 
would  hurl  her  back  into  the  stress  of  the  life  she  had 
broken  with  last  night ! 

She  sprang  up  and  seized  the  letter  which  Maggie 
had  thrust  under  the  door.  It  had  been  sent  to  a  the- 
atrical paper,  and  forwarded  to  her.  The  handwriting 
was  unfamiliar,  but  the  postmark  made  her  heart  leap. 
She  tore  it  open,  and  looked  first  at  the  signature — it 
was  from  Hubbard! 

It  was  a  note  telling  her  that  his  grandmother  was 
— 210 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

dead,  and  the  plantation  his.  He  had  given  up  the  stage 
for  all  time  and  settled  down  to  plant  cotton.  "I  am  here 
if  you  ever  need  me.  All  I  am  and  all  I  have  is  at  your 
disposal.  God  bless  you  and  keep  you  safe." 

Evelyn  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  the 
letter  in  her  hand.  She  forgot  that  there  was  no  heat 
coming  up  through  the  register,  that  she  was  thinly 
clad,  and  shivering  with  cold.  She  read  the  letter  again, 
and  began  to  dress. 

At  eleven  o'clock  she  was  at  the  agency  to  keep  her 
appointment.  For  once  she  was  "the  type,"  and  at  five 
o'clock  that  afternoon  she  was  aboard  the  train  for 
Chicago.  She  was  to  play  a  maid,  and  understudy  the 
leading  woman  in  "The  Hope  Deferred"  company.  She 
was  to  receive  forty  dollars  a  week  for  her  services.  It 
was  a  smaller  salary  than  the  one  Tilton  had  paid  her, 
but  it  was  an  established  play,  and  booked,  so  they  told 
her,  to  the  first  of  July. 

The  note  of  farewell  to  Bratton  Wayne  was  hard 
to  write.  She  hoped  he  would  understand,  and  she 
thanked  him  for  his  goodness  to  her.  "Perhaps  you  will 
never  know  what  your  friendship  has  meant  to  me  this 
winter — I  shall  remember  you  always  so  gratefully." 

She  arrived  in  Chicago  and  went  to  a  hotel  on  the 
North  Side  that  Ann  Dwight  had  once  recommended. 
After  dinner  she  reported  at  the  theatre,  was  given  the 
maid's  part,  told  to  come  for  rehearsal  in  the  morning 
at  eleven,  and  then  sent  out  front  to  see  the  play. 

During  the  days  that  followed,  Evelyn  was  lonely, 
and  depressed,  and  her  only  comfort  was  the  letter  in 
her  hand-bag.  She  read  it  again  and  again,  and  each 
time  it  gave  her  new  hope  and  courage.  She  spent 
much  time  wondering  if  the  coming  of  Hubbard's  let- 
ter at  the  time  it  did  was  a  mere  accident  or  the  direct 
working  of  Providence  to  save  her  from  a  life  of  sin. 
She  liked  to  think  that  her  mother,  looking  down  from 

— 211 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

spirit  land,  had  shaped  events  to  their  present  happy 
conclusion. 

But  as  the  days  went  on  she  had  to  admit  that,  though 
she  was  at  work,  and  safe,  she  was  not  happy.  Now  it 
took  more  than  a  mere  living  to  content  her.  The  din- 
ners alone,  the  days  alone,  the  being  of  no  interest  or 
importance  to  any  one,  filled  her  with  new  but  real  un- 
happiness. 

The  part  of  the  maid  ran  only  through  one  act,  then 
Evelyn  was  free  to  leave  the  theatre,  provided  she  was 
in  telephone  reach  in  the  event  of  an  accident  to  the 
leading  woman.  By  nine-thirty  she  was  in  her  room 
at  the  hotel,  with  a  long  evening  to  kill  in  some 
fashion. 

The  company  that  Evelyn  had  come  on  to  join  was 
heavily  billed  as  "The  Triumvirate  of  Stars  in  Hope 
Deferred."  It  was  a  small  organisation,  headed  by  three 
stars  who  had  long  since  ceased  to  have  drawing  power 
when  exploited  alone,  but  combined  made  an  attraction 
that  drew  packed  and  enthusiastic  houses. 

From  Chicago  they  moved  to  St.  Louis,  and  this  was 
followed  by  a  week  of  one-night  stands  that  carried  them 
through  Arkansas  into  Texas. 

There  were  only  three  women  in  the  organisation — 
Clara  Melton,  the  third  member  of  the  Triumvirate,  Bar- 
bara Hunter,  and  Evelyn.  Miss  Melton,  who  had  been 
in  her  time  one  of  the  best-known  women  on  the  Amer- 
ican stage,  played  the  mother  of  the  two  male  stars. 
Miss  Hunter,  of  the  new  naturalistic  school,  was  the 
girl  about  whom  the  play  revolved.  Between  the  two 
women  there  was  a  long-standing  quarrel  which  afforded 
the  men  of  the  company  never-ending  amusement. 

Seven  men  completed  the  cast,  all  of  them  well-known 
actors  from  the  two  stars  down  to  the  man  who  played 
a  "bit"  in  the  last  act. 

Every  one,  with  the  exception  of  Evelyn,  was  drawing 

— 212 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

a  large  salary,  and  they  lived  in  all  the  comfort  and  lux- 
ury that  the  "road"  could  offer. 

Evelyn  was  caught  up  in  this  expensive  way  of  living, 
and  when  at  the  end  of  each  week  the  sleeper-  and 
parlour-car  fares  were  deducted  from  her  salary,  there 
was  a  considerable  decrease  in  her  pay  envelope.  And 
there  were  expensive  hotels,  expensive  food  that  Bratton 
had  trained  her  to  demand — expensive  clothes  that  each 
day  seemed  more  of  an  absolute  necessity. 

A  month  passed,  and  she  had  not  saved  a  cent.  This 
frightened  and  discouraged  her.  She  began  to  deny 
herself  food  in  a  frantic  effort  to  save.  Hotels  she 
could  not  economise  on,  though  she  always  had  the  cheap- 
est room  in  the  house;  but  the  cheapest  rooms  in  the 
best  hotels  were  expensive,  and  so  the  cut  had  to  be 
made  in  food,  since  she  did  not  want  the  company  to 
know  that  she  was  poor. 

The  travelling  was  hard,  and  Evelyn  grew  thin  and 
pale  under  the  restrictions  of  her  daily  life.  She  with- 
drew more  and  more  from  the  people  of  the  company. 
Days  would  pass  without  a  word  to  any  one,  and  a 
hopelessness  settled  over  her.  At  times  the  old  days 
with  Bob  seemed  better  than  this;  the  love  and  care  of 
Hubbard  she  dared  not  dwell  on,  and  so  her  mind  was 
oftenest  filled  With  memories  of  the  happy  times  she  had 
spent  with  Bratton. 

He  had  never  written  her  a  line,  and  she  wondered 
how  he  felt  towards  her.  She  didn't  miss  him  person- 
ally, but  she  regretted  the  pleasant  things  that  he  stood 
for,  and  as  time  went  on  she  felt  that  she  had  made 
a  real  sacrifice  in  fleeing  the  happiness  he  held  out  to  her. 

Then  suddenly  she  was  aware  that  her  days  need  not 
be  so  cheerless,  so  companionless. 

She  remembered  Bratton  Wayne's  assertion  that  she 
had  an  appeal  that  only  the  unusual  man  would  feel — 
"You  are  caviar  to  the  general,"  he  had  said  with  a  laugh. 

—213— 


The  Least  Resistance 

At  the  time  she  had  answered :  "You  are  being  literary 
at  my  expense."  But  in  thinking  it  over  she  had  to 
admit  that  the  men  who  liked  her  cared  little  for  women 
in  general.  But  why  ?  She  knew  that  she  was  not  beau- 
tiful; her  clothes  were  without  distinction,  save  as  they 
partook  of  her  "quality";  she  was  not  vivacious,  nor 
witty.  But  there  was  something — she  felt  it — knew  that 
she  had  a  power,  a  power  that  acted  almost  without  any 
consciousness  on  her  part.  Looking  back,  she  couldn't 
remember  that  she  had  ever  made  an  effort  to  attract 
a  man — what  if  she  did? 

She  looked  up  from  her  speculations,  to  see  Hale  John- 
ston's eyes  fastened  on  her.  She  smiled  at  him  across 
the  parlour  car.  Soon  he  came  and  stood  by  her. 

"Won't  you  come  and  have  lunch  with  me  ?"  he  asked. 
"They've  just  put  on  a  diner." 

She  hesitated  a  moment — was  it  worth  while? — then, 
"I'd  like  to  very  much,"  she  answered. 

This  was  all  the  encouragement  that  he  needed. 
Thereafter  Evelyn  could  not  complain  of  loneliness  or 
boredom.  Hale  was  a  delightful  companion,  and  a  dili- 
gent pursuer  of  the  phantom  Pleasure. 

Had  Bratton  Wayne  been  on  hand  he  would  have 
observed  that  Evelyn  "was  running  true  to  form."  Hale 
Johnston  was  by  far  the  most  unusual  man  in  the  com- 
pany, not  only  in  appearance,  but  personality.  His  act- 
ing was  obscured  by  the  more  sensational  parts  of  the 
stars,  but  so  unique  was  he  in  method  and  stage  presence 
that  it  would  have  been  easier  to  have  replaced  any  mem- 
ber of  the  company  than  to  have  found  a  substitute  for 
him. 

He  was  tall  and  slight ;  a  beautifully  shaped  head  rising 
above  slender  shoulders;  a  pair  of  hazel  eyes  whose 
general  expression  was  one  of  boredom  or  cynical  un- 
derstanding, breaking  sometimes  into  a  fierce  resentful- 
ness  as  a  sense  of  his  own  limitations  cut  through, 
—214— 


The  Least  Resistance 

his  carefully  cultivated  indifference.  Always  perfectly 
groomed,  and  giving  every  sign  of  aristocratic  ancestry — 
an  ancestry  so  careful  of  its  alliances  that  it  thrust  Hale 
into  the  world  a  product  of  inbreeding,  that  robbed  him 
of  virility,  and  normality,  and  the  will  to  direct  the  many 
gifts  which  nature  had  lavished  on  him. 

He  played  the  piano  remarkably  well,  having  studied 
with  the  best  masters  of  his  own  Boston,  and  abroad; 
he  wrote  with  ease,  light,  brilliant,  satirical  verse ;  he  had 
a  real  gift  for  colour  and  arrangement,  and  a  genius  for 
acting.  With  these  gifts  he  had  inherited  an  unmorality, 
that  in  the  moments  when  his  soul  lifted  itself  above  his 
inherent  weakness,  sickened  and  frightened  him.  He 
escaped  these  moments  of  self-disgust  by  an  interest  in 
a  new  personality  or  a  fresh  dip  into  reckless  dissipation. 

He  had  been  with  the  play  ever  since  its  opening,  and 
had  long  since  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  his  co- 
workers.  The  stolidity  of  the  older  male  star,  the  ego- 
tism of  the  younger,  the  mental  eccentricity  of  Clara 
Melton,  the  superficial  intellectualism  of  Miss  Hunter, 
gave  him  a  great  deal  of  amusement  when  he  wasn't 
filled  with  a  fierce  intolerance  for  the  lot  of  them. 

Then  Evelyn  came,  and  he  was  pleased  with  her  sim- 
plicity, and  aloofness  from  the  company.  He  hated  so 
his  own  need  of  companionship  that  he  felt  an  imme- 
diate respect  for  any  one  who  was  independent  of  other 
people. 

Then  the  gentle  and  generous  stratum  that  lay  deep 
in  his  nature  was  touched  by  the  sadness  of  her  eyes 
and  the  patient,  whimsical  smile  that  occasionally  played 
over  her  face. 

But  strongest  of  all  was  her  appeal  to  his  aesthetic 
sense.  She  had  a  trick  of  suddenly  lifting  her  body, 
when  the  memory  that  she  must  stand  well  came,  that 
caused  a  long,  soft  line  to  drop  straight  from  the  chin 
to  the  feet — he  found  himself  watching,  hoping  to  catch 

—215— 


The  Least  Resistance 

her  in  the  act.  Then  her  pallor,  and  the  fine  lustrous 
hair  that  grew  so  beautifully  about  her  forehead;  the 
sad,  questioning  eyes ;  the  mouth  with  its  half  pout — the 
contradiction  that  Bratton  had  observed,  he  too  noticed. 
And  her  hands,  white,  soft,  exquisitely  modelled,  never 
failed  to  give  him  intense  artistic  satisfaction. 

So  Evelyn  with  her  half  beauty,  her  muted  personality, 
attracted  him,  and  her  remarkable  adaptability  enabled 
her  to  fill  with  ease  the  difficult  role  of  his  daily  com- 
panion. At  times  he  was  a  delightful  companion,  again 
so  moody  and  morose  that  he  would  have  been  unbear- 
able to  a  high-strung  nature.  But  Evelyn  smiled  at  him 
and  offered  to  leave  him  alone  with  his  "black  devil." 
But  he  didn't  want  to  be  left  alone;  he  wanted  her  with 
him — silent,  sympathetic,  understanding. 

Hale's  life  was  a  series  of  financial  ups  and  downs. 
His  adoption  of  the  stage  had  estranged  his  wealthy  fam- 
ily, and,  though  his  salary  was  large,  it  was  scarcely 
enough  for  his  lavish  tastes  and  reckless  expenditures. 

Nothing  gave  him  so  much  pleasure  as  to  spend  a 
lot  of  money  to  secure  a  few  hours  of  enjoyment.  His 
friendship  with  Evelyn  gave  a  fresh  impetus  to  his 
daily  struggle  to  kill  the  tedium  of  the  road. 

There  was  always  something  afoot — a  drive,  a  concert 
when  the  town  afforded  it;  a  visit  to  some  place  of  in- 
terest, and  always  hours  spent  in  the  best  available 
restaurant. 

Here  through  dull  afternoons  they  sat,  Evelyn  drink- 
ing tea  and  munching  toast,  Hale  dividing  his  favour 
between  Scotch  Whiskey  and  Frapped  Absinthe.  Often 
the  afternoon  waned  and  dinner-time  came.  Then  there 
was  hurrying  of  waiters — a  cocktail  urged  on  Evelyn  to 
stimulate  her  appetite;  oysters  or  whatever  attractive 
hors  d'ceuvre  the  menu  offered. 

"It  seems  to  me  we  are  always  eating,"  she  said  to 
him  on  one  occasion  when  tea  shaded  into  dinner. 
— 216 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Well,  what  else  can  we  do  on  these  beastly  one-night 
stands?"  he  asked.  "Nothing  to  see  but  mud,  nowhere 
to  go  but  to  the  moving  pictures !  I  can't  sit  around 
a  hotel  lobby  and  tell  the  drummers  what  a  great  actor 
I  am,  like  Jetsam,  or  sleep  my  life  away,  like  old  Flot- 
sam." These  were  his  names  for  the  two  male  stars. 
"Ye  gods !"  he  went  on,  "the  moment  old  Flotsam  gets 
into  a  room  he  flops  on  the  bed." 

"Just  see  how  well  preserved  he  is,"  Evelyn  said. 

"Yes,  and  his  brain  is  as  well  preserved  as  his 
body " 

"Well,  he  is  a  very  good  actor,  at  any  rate." 

"Meaning  that  I  am  not "  he  cut  in. 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  Evelyn  said  with  a  laugh. 

"I  know,  but  you  implied  it.  I  don't  care.  I  can 
act  all  right.  Any  fool  can  act  if  he  gets  a  part  that 
suits  him.  Here,  waiter,  bring  me  another  cocktail. 
Have  one?"  he  asked,  turning  to  her. 

"No,  one  is  enough  for  me." 

"Don't  be  absurd — you  need  another.  Make  it  two — 
two  Manhattans  with  a  dash  of  absinthe." 

He  swept  her  along,  his  nervous,  wilful  nature  over- 
riding hers.  He  was  selfish,  and  at  times  inconsiderate, 
but  when  it  dawned  on  him  that  he  had  failed  her 
he  tried  to  make  it  up  with  acts  of  thoughtfulness  that 
were  abject  and  lavish. 

Sometimes  she  faintly  resented  his  dominance  of  her, 
but  for  the  most  part  she  found  it  easy  to  fall  in  with 
his  ways.  And  the  material  comfort  that  he  surrounded 
her  with,  the  luxuries  she  could  not  afford  that  he 
supplied,  had  a  grip  on  her,  a  grip  that  grew  as,  through 
self-indulgence,  she  became  less  able  to  endure  hard- 
ships. 

He  saw  that  there  was  a  cab  to  and  from  the  trains ; 
that  she  was  safely  home  from  the  theatre  at  night; 
that  she  never  missed  a  meal,  and  it  was  always  the 


The  Least  Resistance 

best  that  was  to  be  had.  If  she  tried  to  economise  on 
hotels  he  abused  her  soundly  for  not  taking  better  care 
of  herself. 

"But  I  can't  afford  expensive  places,"  she  would  pro- 
test. "I  have  to  save  money — this  season  isn't  going  to 
last  forever." 

"Why,  a  girl  like  you  can  always  get  work — they'd  be 
glad  to  have  you.  Besides,  if  you  don't  take  care  of 
yourself,  you'll  lose  your  youth  and — charm.  Don't  think 
about  money  and  it  will  come  to  you." 

"That  is  all  very  well  for  you  who  have  always  had 
it,  but  I  know  all  about  poverty." 

"Well,  did  you  get  on  any  better  when  you  skimped 
and  starved  your  mind  and  body?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  did,  but " 

This  talk  and  other  that  followed  weakened  her  sense 
of  the  necessity  of  providing  for  the  future.  She  imbibed 
his  philosophy  of  "Demand  and  you  get"  or,  at  any  rate, 
play  the  game  and  take  your  chance. 

She  had  tried  so  hard — tried  thrift,  and  self-sacrifice, 
and  right  living,  and  it  had  been  so  profitless.  Was  there 
another  way,  a  way  that  would  bring  success  and  secur- 
ity? She  was  so  tired  of  the  struggle,  so  unequal  to  it. 
She  never  longed  for  great  artistic  success,  but  she  did 
want  a  secure  place,  a  pleasant  way  of  life,  and  some  one 
to  lean  on.  She  was  thoroughly  aware  that  she  needed 
some  one  to  lean  on — Bratton  had  told  her  that  she  was 
essentially  a  "man's  woman." 

There  were  times  when  Evelyn  admitted  to  herself 
that  her  association  with  Hale  Johnston  was  not  a  good 
thing  for  her — that  she  was  taking  on  too  strongly 
his  recklessness,  his  extravagance  of  thought  and  deed. 
His  slogan,  "Take  your  chance,"  was  slowly,  but  surely, 
becoming  her  own. 

Evelyn  had  given  up  Bratton  Wayne  under  the  influ- 
ence of  Hubbard's  letter,  and  this  piece  of  heroism  had 


The  Least  Resistance 

made  her  feel  that,  since  she  had  remained  faithful  to 
the  code,  it  was  permissible  to  indulge  herself  along 
other  lines.  So  long  as  Hale  Johnston  demanded  noth- 
ing in  return  for  his  overwhelming  attention,  so  long  as 
he  required  that  she  be  but  a  responsive  companion,  her 
conscience  did  not  reproach  her,  nor  did  the  fact  that 
their  friendship  gave  the  company  ample  food  for  gos- 
sip trouble  her. 

In  fact,  she  and  Hale  derived  much  amusement  from 
the  attitude  of  Miss  Hunter.  Miss  Hunter,  whose  intel- 
lectual flights  had  failed  to  interest  Hale,  suddenly  re- 
membered that  such  intimacies  could  mean  only  one 
thing  when  one  knew  the  frailty  of  human  nature.  In 
the  beginning  she  had  treated  Evelyn  with  high,  kindly 
patronage,  which  was  withdrawn  in  favour  of  cold  dis- 
approval as  Evelyn  allowed  herself  to  became  entangled 
with  that  "decadent  creature." 

The  pointed  displeasure  of  Miss  Hunter,  and  the  in- 
difference of  the  other  members  of  the  company,  threw 
her  more  entirely  on  the  companionship  of  Hale.  And 
as  time  went  on  she  realised  that  he  was  not  only  a 
demoralising  but  a  profoundly  dangerous  influence  for 
her,  and  she  wished  that  she  had  the  strength  to  draw 
away  from  him ;  she  wished  it  especially  after  his  confes- 
sion that  conventional  morals  and  precepts  had  never 
meant  anything  to  him ;  even  things  which  his  mind  con- 
demned excited  in  him  no  emotional  or  moral  repulsion. 

"Unmoral,  unmoral,"  he  would  say  when  drinking 
wiped  out  his  natural  aversion  to  self-analysis.  "Hurled 
into  the  world  without  a  chance  to  pull  straight.  But 
what's  the  use — good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  life  crushes  you, 
beats  you — why  not  live  according  to  your  instincts? — 
take  your  chance — it  amounts  to  the  same  thing  in  the 
end." 

"But  you  have  so  much,"  she  would  say  in  a  faint  ef- 
fort to  give  him  the  steadying  word  that  he  needed. 

— 219 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Much?"  he  asked.  "What?  A  lot  of  unrelated  tal- 
ents— an  eye  for  colour,  a  sporadic  feel  for  music,  a  knack 
for  playing  some  parts,  but  no  will  to  use  any  of  the 
three.  I  lack  all  three  of  the  great  co-ordinators — I  have 
no  faith  in  myself,  no  deep  hope,  and  I'm  incapable  of  a 
love  that  would  strike  out  self — so  at  thirty-four  I  stand 
a  pretty  rotten  failure,  and  I  haven't  even  the  courage 
to  get  out  of  it." 

"But  you  are  so  wrong  about  yourself — you  think  you 
haven't  this  or  that,  but  don't  you  see  that  you  couldn't 
feel  so  if  you  didn't  have  depths " 

"Yes,  I  have  depths,  but  they  aren't  places  to  be  ex- 
plored. But  you  are  a  brave  young  thing  to  put  up  with 
me."  He  reached  across  the  table  and  laid  his  hand  over 
hers. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  gently,  surprised  by  this  sud- 
den display  of  feeling  on  his  part.  He  had  been  so  pecu- 
liarly impersonal  in  his  attitude;  in  fact,  he  had  never 
seemed  to  see  her  as  other  than  a  piece  of  Nature's  handi- 
craft that  pleased  his  artistic  soul. 

This  touch  of  sentiment  was  without  any  consequence 
in  their  friendship,  and  they  drifted  on  through  the 
days,  Evelyn  listening  to  his  bitterness,  and  his  anarchy, 
and  absorbing  his  philosophy  of  life,  and  not  only  his 
philosophy  but  his  tastes.  The  glimpses  of  comfort  and 
luxury  that  Bratton  Wayne  had  given  her  became  a  daily 
necessity. 

Sordid  surroundings  depressed  her;  good  hotels,  par- 
lour cars  and  cabs  grew  to  be  indispensable,  and  the 
best  food  that  it  was  possible  to  get — the  very  sight  of  a 
cheap  restaurant  with  its  characteristic  odours  sickened 
her. 

Then  the  clothes  question.    With  his  eye  for  colour  and 

line,  Hale  aroused  and  trained  her  latent  talent.     He 

talked  to  her  of  her  good  and  bad  points,  of  the  colours 

she  should  wear,  of  the  style  that  best  suited  her,  gradu- 

— 220 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

ally  creating  in  her  mind  an  image  that  she  now  approxi- 
mated, and  in  time  would  body  forth  completely.  But 
the  process  would  require  time,  and  money. 

"You  ought  to  win  out  big  in  this  business,"  he  would 
say,  "if  you  ever  get  hold  of  a  man  that  sees  you  as  you 
really  are.  When  you  stand  with  your  head  at  that 
angle,"  and  with  a  swift  gesture  he  raised  her  chin, 
"and  look  up  at  some  old  fellow  with  those  appealing 
eyes — why,  he  ought  to  star  you !" 

"Hale,"  she  asked  seriously,  "do  you  think  it  possible 
for  a  girl  to  get  on  and  remain" — she  paused — "good  ?" 

He  laughed.  "Does  that  trouble  your  pretty  head? 
Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  doubt  its  possibility,  and  its 
desirability — but  I  don't  want  to  put  notions  in  your 
mind.  Before  you  go  much  farther,  you'll  decide  for 
yourself.  But  listen  to  me,  Evelyn,  whatever  you  decide 
don't  let  them  beat  you." 

"Beat  me?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  with  their  fists!  But  they  will  do 
you  if  they  can.  They'll  lose  their  heads  over  you,  but 
cheat  you  if  they  can.  Don't  let  them  do  it,  make 
them  pay,  and  pay  high — you  are  worth  it — worth  all 
any  man  can  give."  Then  he  added  fiercely :  "I  wish 
you'd  never  gotten  into  this  rotten  business — you  don't 
belong." 

"But  there  is  no  way  out,  and  I'll  stick  until  I  go 
under  or " 

"Up.    You  will  if  you  keep  your  head,  and  use  it." 

After  this  she  began  to  think  more  seriously  of  the 
possibilities  of  success,  and  of  her  qualifications.  What 
had  she?  No  great  gift,  she  knew,  no  power,  no  vivid 
imagination,  no  beautiful  voice,  but  since  so  many  had 
predicted  success  for  her,  it  must  be  that  she  had  that 
mysterious  thing,  "personality." 

Possessed  of  that,  she  required  little  else,  but  the  need 
now  was  to  cultivate  and  intensify  it.  She  began  to  be 

— 221 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

curious  about  her  attraction  for  people,  men  especially 
— anxious  to  know  how  real  a  thing  it  was.  If  a  man 
in  the  street  glanced  at  her,  she  wondered  if  it  were  only 
an  interest  in  a  passing  object  or  if  he  detected  in  her 
face  some  rare  and  arresting  quality. 

The  loafers  about  the  hotel  lobby  took  on  a  new  im- 
portance to  her — did  they  stare  at  her  because  she  was 
a  woman  or  because  she  was  Evelyn  Lane?  She  felt 
a  new  willingness  to  talk  to  the  men  in  the  company, 
pretended  an  interest  that  she  did  not  feel  in  the  ego- 
saturated  stories  of  the  younger  star.  She  saw  him  re- 
spond to  this  appreciation,  and  was  secretly  elated.  A 
few  hours  later  she  saw  him  with  the  same  avidity  nar- 
rating his  achievements  to  the  carpenter!  She  was  re- 
stored to  her  balance,  and  had  a  laugh  at  her  own 
expense. 

Thereafter  she  tried  to  check  these  thoughts,  but  her 
point  of  view  had  changed  materially,  and  in  spite  of 
her  efforts  she  was  constantly  studying  the  effect  she 
produced  on  each  and  every  man  that  came  within  her 
range.  Then  came  a  meeting  that  broke  in  on  this  line 
of  thought. 

Easter  week  "Hope  Deferred"  was  playing  in  New  Or- 
leans, and  as  Evelyn  came  from  the  theatre  Monday 
morning,  where  she  had  been  to  get  her  mail,  she  saw 
emerging  from  the  stage  door  of  the  adjoining  theatre 
Mary  Leighton.  For  a  moment  the  girls  faced  each 
other,  then  there  were  glad  cries,  and  an  ardent  embrace. 

"Mary — Mary — I  am  so  glad — what  are  you  doing  ?" 

"Still  the  leads  in  the  melodramas,"  Mary  answered. 
"And  you?" 

"A  very  small  'yob'  with  the  Triumvirate." 

"That  is  splendid!" 

"What — being  the  poor  boy  at  the  frolic?"  Evelyn 
asked  with  a  laugh.  "Come  on,  let's  have  lunch,  and  an 
old-fashioned  talk."  She  linked  her  arm  in  Mary's,  and 

— 222 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

they  passed  through  the  arcade  that  led  to  the  street,  and 
turned  into  the  Grunewald. 

"But  why  do  we  go  in  here?  This  isn't  my  style," 
Mary  said. 

"But  the  food  is  so  good  here,  and  this  is  my  party — 
so  don't  spoil  it,  please,"  Evelyn  said  as  she  led  the  way. 

Over  the  luncheon  they  exchanged  experiences.  With 
Mary  it  was  the  old  story. 

"Haven't  been  able  to  break  away  yet,"  she  said,  "but 
next  year  I'll  have  my  chance.  Jennie,  my  sister,  you 
remember,  married  last  week  a  prosperous  man,  and 
I  haven't  her  to  think  of  now,  and  by  the  end  of  the 
season  I'll  have  a  thousand  dollars.  I  can  hold  out  al- 
most two  years  for  a  real  engagement." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad !"  Evelyn  exclaimed.  "You've  been 
so  brave " 

"Oh,  no! — that  is,  not  especially — it  takes  a  sort  of 
courage — you  know  that." 

"I  used  to — I've  grown  to  be  an  awful  coward." 

"Nonsense — but  I'll  tell  you  what  you  have  grown " 

"What?" 

"A  beauty " 

"Really?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Yes,  I  always  thought  you  were  lovely,  but  now  you 
are  more  than  that — exquisite." 

Evelyn  was  facing  a  mirror,  and  as  Mary  spoke  she 
glanced  at  her  reflected  image.  She  saw  the  picture 
that  Mary  had  called  exquisite,  and  she  was  forced  to 
admit  that  the  description  fitted.  Yes,  she  had  changed 
— everything  but  the  eyes — they  were  still  sad,  still  ques- 
tioning. But  the  clear,  pale  skin,  the  red  lips,  the  soft 
hair  brought  low  under  a  becoming  hat — the  immaculate 
crepe  blouse  cut  low  to  show  the  firm  white  throat — all 
very  effective. 

Evelyn's  eyes  shifted  to  Mary  in  her  simple,  almost 
severe  clothes — selected  with  no  thought  for  beauty, 

—223— 


The  Least  Resistance 

but  for  service — the  hat  without  a  softening  line,  but 
these  things  didn't  matter  when  you  looked  into  Mary's 
clear,  steady  grey  eyes  and  heard  the  voice  with  its 
many  liquid  modulations. 

"Now  it  is  your  turn,"  Mary  was  saying.  "Tell  your 
story." 

But  beyond  the  barest  outline  of  her  life  since  the 
"No  Guiding  Hand"  company,  Evelyn  had  nothing  to 
tell.  So  much  had  happened,  so  much  had  changed,  she 
felt  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  make  it  all  clear 
to  Mary,  and  yet  she  wanted  to  tell  of  the  new  and  dan- 
gerous things  that  had  come  into  her  heart  of  late,  but 
the  old  secretiveness  held  good,  and  gradually  the  talk 
got  back  to  Mary. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said,  "I  was  going  to  do  a  most 
unusual  thing  this  afternoon — going  to  the  vaudeville 
house  to  see  the  man  you  used  to  tell  me  so  much  about. 
He  is  playing  here  in  his  own  sketch." 

"Who?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Harmon  Miller — you  remember  you  liked  him  so 
well." 

"Yes — I  used  to  say  that  I'd  like  to  make  a  match 
between  you  two — didn't  I  ?"  Evelyn  asked  with  a  laugh. 

"You  did,  but  I'm  afraid  that  it  would  be  a  hopeless 
task  for  you  to  undertake — I've  decided  that  men  aren't 
to  be — they  would  break  in  on  what  I  want  to  do." 

"But  do  you  think  a  girl  can  get  on  in  this  business 
without  one  of  them  behind  her?" 

"Think  it  ?  I  know  it.  If  I  didn't  believe  it  with  all 
my  soul,  I  would  get  out — not  because  I  think  it  wrong 
to  have  help,  or  that  I  am  so  strait-laced,  but  I  want 
the  fun  and  glory  of  doing  it  all  by  myself." 

"That  sounds  fine  and  strong,"  Evelyn  agreed,  "but  it 
is  such  a  hopeless  thing  for  a  woman  alone." 

Mary  looked  at  her  a  moment — was  this  the  answer? 
— 224 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

Then  she  put  by  that  thought  as  a  horrid,  disloyal  one. 
"Don't  you  want  to  see  Harmon  Miller  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I'd  like  to,  and  afterwards  we'll  go  back  to  meet 
him.  It  is  wonderful  to  find  the  two  of  you  here." 

They  sat  through  the  long  programme  until  Harmon's 
act  was  over,  then  went  around  to  the  stage  door  to  wait 
for  him. 

"Little  Evelyn !"  he  exclaimed  as  he  saw  her.  "Well, 
this  is  a  surprise." 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Harmon."  Then  she  presented 
him  to  Mary. 

"Won't  the  two  of  you  have  dinner  with  me?"  he 
asked,  and  when  they  consented,  he  added:  "I  have  to 
go  out  to  the  front  of  the  house  to  see  the  manager,  but 
I  won't  keep  you  waiting  ten  minutes." 

"Suppose  we  go  to  the  hotel,  and  you  call  for  us,  Har- 
mon, when  you  are  ready,"  Evelyn  suggested. 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  he  agreed.  "I'll  be  right  along 
as  soon  as  I  get  through  with  our  little  conference." 

When  the  two  girls  were  in  Evelyn's  room,  Mary  was 
asked  how  she  liked  him. 

"I  am  not  going  to  commit  myself ;  but  he  can  act — that 
always  disposes  me  towards  any  one,"  she  answered. 
"Good  actors  aren't  so  rare  with  you,  Evelyn,  as  they 
are  with  me." 

"No,  we  have  some  very  good  ones  with  us." 

"You  ought  to  learn  a  lot  from  watching  them,"  Mary 
said. 

Evelyn  checked  herself  before  she  admitted  that  she 
never  watched  them. 

"I've  always  wanted  to  see  Clara  Melton — she  was 
great  in  her  time." 

"She  is  now,"  Evelyn  said,  "and  Miss  Hunter  is 
clever,  too,  even  if  she  is  an  intellectual  fake." 

Mary  looked  quickly  at  her — was  this  Evelyn  speak- 
ing? "Who  else  is  in  the  company?"  she  asked. 

—225— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Blair  and  Mortimer — you  know  the  two  stars.  I 
like  Mr.  Blair's  work,  but  Mr.  Mortimer  seems  awfully 
artificial  to  me — so  natural  until  he  is  unnatural.  Then 
we  have  Timothy  Haynes,  and  Jack  Strang,  and " 

The  ringing  of  the  telephone  interrupted  her.  "Yes," 
she  answered.  "I  just  came  in — went  with  a  friend — 
girl  friend — to  the  vaudeville.  Sorry,  but  I'm  going  to 
dinner  with  some  other  people — see  you  later."  She 
turned  to  Mary :  "That  was  Hale  Johnston.  I  wish  you 
could  see  him  act;  he  does  only  a  bit,  but  he  is  remark- 
able in  it,  and  he  has  such  a  good  mind — he  has  been 
awfully  kind  to  me."  She  turned  candid  eyes  to  Mary. 

The  next  moment  the  older  woman  had  her  arms  about 
her,  and  was  saying :  "You  are  just  the  same  sweet  Eve- 
lyn, and  I'm  so  glad." 


—226— 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

r  I^HE  dinner  with  Harmon  was  a  great  success,  though 
A  he  did  not  take  them  to  a  place  that  would  have 
suited  the  fastidious  Hale.  But  they  had  a  lot  of  in- 
teresting talk,  and  heard  Harmon  out  on  his  vaudeville 
experiences. 

"I  worked  for  the  other  fellow  for  years,  and  it  didn't 
get  me  anything,  so  I  branched  out  for  myself.  I'm 
not  getting  famous,  but  I'm  making  money,  and  that's 
what  counts." 

Mary  disagreed  with  him,  and  said  so  in  round  terms, 
adding  that  it  was  a  shame  to  waste  years  on  a  thing 
like  his  present  vehicle  when  he  might  be  playing  good 
parts,  and  making  a  real  reputation  for  himself. 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  I've  had  years  of  trying  to 
do  the  artistic,  and  sometimes  I  ate,  and  then  again  I 
didn't.  But  with  this  little  act  I  can  make  a  small  fortune, 
and  then  maybe  I'll  go  in  for  the  high-brow  stuff." 

"But  you'll  get  so  busy  making  money,  you'll  forget 
the  other,  and  our  stage  needs  all  the  comedians  it  can 
get — we  have  so  few  real  ones." 

"Oh,  Mary,  you  are  so  idealistic,  and  Harmon  and  I 
are  rank  materialists — we  think  always  about  money!" 
Evelyn  put  in. 

"Nonsense — the  first  duty  of  a  good  actor  is  to  act,  and 
this  man  here  is  wasting  his  talent." 

Harmon  had  his  share  of  vanity,  and  this  plain-spoken 
appreciation  pleased  him  greatly.  And  the  girl  with  her 
frankness,  and  her  definiteness,  pleased  him  even  more. 
He  found  himself  opposing  her  just  to  see  her  fine, 
steady  eyes  light  up  with  earnestness  and  enthusiasm  as 

— 227 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

she  set  forth  her  opinions  and  beliefs.  Soon  they  drifted 
into  a  discussion  of  acting. 

They  talked  of  "tricks"  and  "points,"  and  effects,  and 
the  methods  of  this  man,  and  the  deficiencies  of  an- 
other. Here  was  no  admission  of  "acting  consists  in  get- 
ting your  personality  over  the  footlights."  Both  believed 
in  work,  study,  observation,  and  "acting  brains." 

Evelyn  sat  silent  through  it  all.  She  was  interested, 
but  not  enough  to  take  any  part,  and  she  had  no  opin- 
ions worth  while  offering  when  they  appealed  to  her,  as 
they  did  very  rarely  as  the  dinner  wore  on. 

She  wished  in  a  half-hearted  way  that  she  could  al- 
ways be  associated  with  Mary.  Under  her  influence  it 
would  be  easy  to  be  strong,  and  thrifty,  and  ambitious. 
And  the  next  moment  she  wondered  if  she  would  not 
be  worn  out  trying  to  live  up  to  Mary's  vitality.  She 
remembered  how  Mary,  in  spite  of  the  hard  travel,  the 
bad  hotels,  and  dreary  theatres,  had  always  been  ready 
to  talk  about  acting  as  an  art,  and  about  Life  as  a  thing 
to  be  lived  and  loved. 

She,  Evelyn,  had  borne  the  same  hardships,  but  she 
had  been  tired  and  apathetic  when  not  actively  wretched 
about  Bob.  Then  she  had  imagined  that  once  free  of 
Bob  her  life  would  be  easy  and  happy.  And  now  though 
she  was  doing  fairly  well,  making  money  and  receiving 
her  share  of  flattery  and  attention,  she  was  scarcely  any 
happier — not  positively  unhappy,  but  sinking  into  anxiety 
and  depression  when  not  stimulated  by  some  external 
agency. 

While  playing  the  good  part  in  Miss  Hartwell's  com- 
pany, Evelyn  had  fancied  that  she  really  was  fond  of 
acting,  and  ambitious  to  get  on,  but  now  that  she  had 
only  a  "bit"  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  be  miserable  about 
it  or  to  prepare  herself  for  the  time  when  good  parts 
would  be  her  portion. 

She  had  absorbed  the  shibboleth  of  her  profession, 
—228— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"personality,"  and  her  mental  quest  these  days  was  to 
find  out  just  how  much  of  this  precious  quality  was  hers. 

Though  Evelyn  was  delighted  to  see  Mary  and  Har- 
mon, and  pleased  that  through  her  they  had  been  brought 
together,  she  was  glad  to  escape  them  and  their  talk,  and 
return  to  the  more  sophisticated,  more  incisive  though 
less  vital  mentality  of  Hale  Johnston. 

But  he  was  in  a  sullen,  ungracious  mood  when  she 
reached  the  theatre,  and  though  he  said  nothing,  she 
sensed  that  it  was  because  he  had  spent  the  afternoon 
alone,  and  dined  by  himself,  a  thing  he  had  not  done 
since  the  beginning  of  their  friendship. 

"Anything  wrong?"  she  asked  as  she  stood  in  his 
dressing  room  door. 

"No,"  he  answered,  looking  up  from  his  book.  He 
was  not  on  until  the  second  act  and  he  filled  in  the  first 
act  with  reading.  "What  could  be  wrong?" 

"You  seem  out  of  sorts." 

"Because  I  indulge  in  the  quaint  and  obsolete  pastime 
of  reading?"  he  asked  disagreeably. 

"No,"  Evelyn  said  with  a  laugh,  "but  because  you  are 
rude  to  me — that  is  something  new  for  you."  And  she 
passed  on  to  her  dressing  room. 

When  she  was  out  of  sight  he  slammed  down  the  book 
and  closed  the  door  that  he  had  left  open  to  see  her  pass. 

"I  will  not!"  he  said  to  himself  fiercely.  "Life  is  hell 
enough  without  such  things." 

His  black  mood  continued,  and  he  avoided  her,  almost 
hating  her  for  her  ability  to  annoy  him.  Evelyn  felt  a 
decided  relief  in  being  free  of  him.  She  spent  the  week 
with  Mary,  and  it  was  scarcely  any  time  before  the  old 
sympathy  and  interest  between  them  was  re-established. 

Evelyn  caught  some  of  Mary's  enthusiasm,  and  began 
to  have  vague  longings  to  succeed  as  an  actress,  not  to 
drift  along  led  by  whatever  hand  that  was  held  out  to 
her.  Gradually  her  natural  reticence  broke  under  Mary's 

— 229 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

sympathetic  questioning,  and  she  sketched  out  the  life 
she  had  led  since  her  flight  from  Bob. 

"I  saw  him  one  night  in  New  York — it  was  the  night 
I  was  so  down.  He  was  just  the  same — awful !  I  won- 
der how  I  ever  did  it.  Isn't  it  terrible  the  way  they  bring 
us  up — not  to  know  anything?  You  know  you  used  to 
say  that  we  were  trained  in  everything  but  the  things  we 
needed  in  our  struggle  for  existence." 

"I  know,"  Mary  answered,  "but  there  was  an  instinct 
in  you  that  taught  you  how  to  handle  the  case.  Perhaps 
you  were  wiser  acting  on  that  instinct  than  if  you  had 
been  burdened  with  a  lot  of  second-hand  ideas  of  how 
to  cope  with  the  situation." 

"Perhaps — but  it  took  me  so  long  to  learn  how  to  meet 
the  things  that  came  up.  I  don't  know  now,"  she  said, 
with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 

"You  don't  meet  them;  you  just  fit  in — that  is  your 
charm,  and  your — danger."  Mary  was  about  to  say 
"your  tragedy,"  but  she  checked  herself,  not  wishing  to 
give  Evelyn  another  negative  suggestion.  She  hated  all 
of  the  influences  that  had  wrought  upon  Evelyn.  True, 
they  had  made  her  an  exquisite  piece  of  femininity,  but 
the  enervation  caused  by  a  luxury  that  she  could  not 
afford,  and  would  not  be  able  to  keep  up,  filled  her  with 
deep  anxiety  for  her  friend. 

Evelyn  moved  from  her  hotel  to  Mary's,  and,  as  in  the 
old  days,  they  had  adjoining  rooms.  During  the  week 
she  was  attacked  on  all  sides  by  the  steadying  and  uplift- 
ing philosophy  of  Mary.  And  when  they  dined  with  Har- 
mon, as  they  often  did,  his  practical  and  virile  mind  was 
brought  to  bear  on  her,  and  between  the  two  she  felt  old 
desires  awakening,  old  standards  returning,  old  strength 
reviving. 

What  did  it  matter  what  the  company  thought  of  her 
and  her  poverty  ?  Why  should  she  spend  her  little  all  in 
trying  to  keep  up  with  people  who  were  earning  double, 
—230— 


The  Least  Resistance 

treble,  even  ten  times  as  much  as  she?  And  what  good 
was  it  to  have  now  the  luxuries  of  life,  if  on  her  return 
to  New  York  she  was  to  be  plunged  into  dire  poverty? 

All  of  the  talk  of  being  able  at  any  time  to  get  work 
was  a  myth,  a  thing  that  Hale  might  believe,  but  which 
had  no  substratum  of  truth.  Girls,  prettier,  better  known, 
more  gifted  than  she,  went  months  without  work. 

Facing  this  truth,  Evelyn  thought  with  terror  of  the 
closing  of  the  season.  She  had  not  saved  a  cent.  She 
had  some  pretty  clothes,  an  intimate  knowledge  of  all  the 
good  hotels  and  fashionable  restaurants  in  the  country 
through  which  they  had  passed,  but  that  would  not  sup- 
port her  when  she  was  occupying  a  cheerless  room  on  the 
top  floor  of  some  theatrical  rooming  house. 

"Evelyn,"  Mary  said  one  night  as  they  sat  late  talking, 
"why  don't  you  give  up  this  job  and  go  back  to  New 
York  and  get  in  a  good  summer  stock?" 

"Why,  how  could  I?"  she  asked,  wondering  if  Mary 
had  suffered  a  sudden  loss  of  reason. 

"I'll  lend  you  the  money,"  Mary  went  on  hastily.  "I'm 
sure  you  could  land  a  good  one.  I  can  give  you  a  letter 
to  Mack  Morton  that  would  be  apt  to  get  you  in  with 
him.  But  I'll  stake  you  as  long  as  you  are  there." 

"Are  you  really  so  uneasy  about  me?"  Evelyn  asked. 
"I'm  all  right,  Mary;  you  don't  know  how  safe  I  am." 

"I'm  not  uneasy,  but  I  know  you  ought  to  be  at  work. 
You  have  nothing  to  do  here  but  to  eat  and  be  merry,  and 
I  don't  think  that  is  good  for  any  girl  who  has  to  work 
for  a  living.  You  aren't  learning  anything  about  acting ; 
you  aren't  saving  money — so  what  good  is  it?" 

"Do  you  think  I'd  take  your  money — just  now,  when  it 
means  a  chance  for  you  ?" 

"I'll  get  my  chance.  I  want  you  to  have  one,  little 
Evelyn,  and  I  want  you  to  get  away  from  people  who 
aren't  worthy  of  you.  This  man  Johnston  may  be  very 
harmless  in  a  sex  way,  but  he  is  a  demoralising  influence. 

—231— 


The  Least  Resistance 

He  fills  your  head  with  a  lot  of  cheap  sophistries  that 
won't  help  you  at  all.  He  seems  generous  and  consider- 
ate, but  he  isn't  giving  you  a  real  thought — he  is  using 
you  to  kill  time  for  himself.  He  may  mean  well,  but  he 
is  selfish  and  self-centred,  and  you'll  pass  along  just  as 
the  others  that  he  has  won  with  his  insidious,  spurious 
charm." 

"But  I'm  not  in  the  least  in  love  with  him,  Mary," 
Evelyn  protested. 

"I  know,  and  if  you  were  he'd  soon  break  your  heart, 
and  then,  because  you're  a  practical  little  creature,  you 
would  get  away  from  him.  But  it  is  because  you  aren't 
aware  of  his  viciousness  that  he  is  doing  you  so  much 
harm.  Take  me  up,  and  get  away — I  mean  it,  Evelyn, 
right  from  my  heart." 

"I  couldn't,  Mary — I  couldn't.  I  don't  know  what  I  am 
going  to  do,  but  I'm  not  going  to  fall  down  on  you  just 
because  I  haven't  a  fine,  strong  character.  If  I'm  weak 
and  silly  I  have  got  to  go  through  with  it.  I  suppose  if 
it  wasn't  Hale  it  would  be  some  one  else — so " 

Mary,  failing  in  this  plan,  tried  other  tactics.  She 
talked  and  preached  "acting" — its  beauty  and  value,  until 
finally  Evelyn  caught  a  little  of  her  fire,  and  vowed  that 
she,  too,  would  burn  a  candle  of  faith  and  devotion  before 
the  high  altar  of  Art. 

The  week  ended,  and  the  girls  parted.  The  last  night 
they  had  supper  with  Harmon  after  the  play,  and  Evelyn 
saw  that  a  real  friendship  had  been  formed  between  Mary 
and  Harmon.  For  the  first  time  Mary  seemed  really  in- 
terested in  a  man,  and  as  for  Harmon,  his  eyes  never 
left  her  face. 

They  were  to  meet  again  soon,  as  her  company  and  his 
act  were  to  play  Dallas,  Texas,  the  same  week.  His  eyes 
lighted  with  joy  at  this  discovery,  and  he  lifted  his  glass 
to  drink  to  their  next  meeting. 

That  night,  long  after  the  girls  had  gone  to  bed,  they 
—232— 


The  Least  Resistance 

continued  their  talk  through  the  door  that  opened  be- 
tween the  rooms. 

"Some  day  you'll  be  Mrs.  Harmon  Miller,"  Evelyn  said 
through  the  darkness. 

"Nonsense!"  came  the  answer.  "I  have  no  intention 
of  marrying." 

"Perhaps  not,  but  Harmon  has,  and  he  has  a  way  of 
getting  what  he  wants.  You  know  you  like  him,"  she 
said  insinuatingly. 

"Yes,  but  marrying  is  something  else — I  shall " 

Then  she  said  no  more,  for  she  was  not  nearly  so  sure 
as  she  had  been  a  week  ago  that  she  never  wanted  to 
marry. 

Mary's  company  moved  on  into  Texas,  and  "Hope  De- 
ferred" was  working  East  again  by  way  of  the  Gulf 
states. 

The  breach  between  Evelyn  and  Hale  had  never  closed, 
and  she  took  advantage  of  her  freedom  to  get  a  good 
start  in  the  way  of  saving  money. 

At  first  it  was  easy,  as  they  were  covering  territory 
that  Evelyn  knew  from  days  with  Bob.  She  renewed  her 
acquaintance  with  the  cheaper  hotels  and  poorer  res- 
taurants. The  body  often  rebelled  against  the  dictates 
of  the  spirit,  and  as  time  went  on  and  Mary's  influence 
weakened  she  rebelled  more  and  more  against  the  sordid 
surroundings,  and  was  less  able  to  eat  the  food  that  she 
felt  she  could  afford. 

But  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  she  had  saved  forty  dol- 
lars and  this  was  encouragement  enough  to  start  bravely 
on  the  third  week. 

For  some  time  Evelyn  had  known  that  Hale  was  weary 
of  his  isolation,  and  that  only  his  pride  kept  him  from 
attempting  a  reconciliation.  She  offered  him  no  en- 
couragement, aware  that  a  resumption  of  friendly  rela- 
tions would  plunge  her  into  new  and  unnecessary  ex- 
travagances. So  she  gave  him  no  chance  to  make  friends, 

—233— 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  he  fumed  and  fussed  to  himself  and  gave  free  rein 
to  all  the  fierceness  and  bitterness  in  him,  only  losing 
this  in  a  mad  recklessness  that  came  with  drinking. 

"Hope  Deferred"  was  having  three  weeks  of  one-night 
stands,  and  they  were  especially  trying  to  Hale.  To  sit 
for  hours  in  a  car  and  look  at  the  faces  of  the  people  in 
the  company — their  fat,  well-kept,  smug  faces;  to  hear 
their  small,  self-saturated  talk  and  their  second-hand 
opinions  on  all  subjects;  to  see  them  read  the  lightest 
and  cheapest  of  literature  rilled  him  with  an  unholy  rage. 

And  Evelyn  was  doing  her  share  to  irritate  him.  She 
not  only  avoided  him  on  the  trains,  but  in  the  theatre 
and  hotels,  and  one  day  he  met  her  face  to  face  as  she 
emerged  from  a  dairy  lunch  room.  He  felt  that  she  was 
doing  it  to  punish  him,  and  it  made  him  wildly  angry. 

"What  are  you  attempting — slow  starvation  ?"  he  asked 
insultingly. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  and  passed  on  without  a 
word.  There  had  been  in  his  eyes  something  that  con- 
tradicted the  roughness  of  his  speech — a  yearning,  a  ten- 
derness, and  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a  tortured  soul. 

The  third  week  was  drawing  to  its  close,  and  Evelyn 
had  been  able  to  save  more  this  week  than  during  the 
two  previous.  There  had  been  fewer  sleeper  jumps,  and 
shorter  trips,  that  lessened  parlour-car  fares. 

There  was  money  in  her  pocket,  but  her  spirits  were 
far  down,  and,  her  vitality  never  abounding,  through  lack 
of  good  food,  necessary  exercise  and  diversion,  was  at 
low  ebb.  She  remembered  the  words  of  Hale :  "Suppose 
you  skimp  and  save — you  make  yourself  a  physical 
wreck,  and  you  set  your  standard  so  low  that  whatever 
Fate  chooses  to  hand  you  seems  good  enough." 

Was  that  true?  Was  it  the  part  of  wisdom  to  live 
well  and  let  the  morrow  take  care  of  itself  ?  But  it  wasn't 
that  she  did  not  live  well  enough ;  the  less  expensive  ho- 
tels were  clean,  but  there  was  no  atmosphere,  no  charm, 
—234— 


The  Least  Resistance 

nothing  to  satisfy  her  sense  of  beauty — just  a  place  to 
sleep.  And  the  food  in  cheaper  restaurants  was  not  bad 
— once  she  had  thought  it  good  enough.  Mary  could 
stand  it,  and  Mary  was  as  finely  organised  as  she.  But 
she  couldn't  eat  it  any  longer,  however  she  might  reason 
about  it.  The  least  kitchen  odour,  or  the  sight  of  a 
greasy-coated  waiter  deprived  her  of  all  appetite. 

Worst  of  all  was  the  loneliness.  She  had  grown  so 
used  to  the  interest  and  attention  of  Bratton  Wayne  and 
then  Hale  Johnston.  Through  all  this  time  she  tried  to 
keep  her  mind  cheerful  by  remembering  the  simple, 
happy  hours  she  had  spent  with  Hubbard,  but  they  grew 
dimmer  and  failed  of  comfort.  She  told  herself  that  she 
wanted  to  live  as  he  would  like  her  to,  keeping  all  of  the 
qualities  he  had  loved.  If  she  were  free  she  would 
go  to  him,  and  in  his  strength  she  would  find  content. 

The  slow  train  rattled  on  through  the  low,  swampy 
Florida  land.  The  dead  trees,  with  long,  hanging  grey 
moss,  made  the  forests  ghostly  and  sad ;  built-up  board- 
walks followed  the  tracks  for  a  while,  then  plunged  into 
the  woods  and  were  lost  to  sight — leading,  Evelyn  won- 
dered, to  what  lonely  hut.  There  would  be  a  sudden 
cessation  of  trees  and  a  long  stretch  of  plain  with  a  small 
town  set  down  in  its  midst ;  an  occasional  fine  estate  broke 
the  monotony  of  the  landscape,  and  over  it  all  the  soft 
glow  of  the  setting  sun.  The  gold  deepened  into  red  as 
the  sun  hung  for  a  moment  on  the  horizon,  then  red 
yielded  to  gold,  gold  to  purple,  and  purple  to  the  twilight 
grey. 

Evelyn  forgot  her  woes  and  problems  and  leaned  back 
in  her  corner,  unconscious  of  the  fat  woman  who  had 
crowded  into  the  seat  with  her. 

The  train  stopped  with  a  jerk  and  a  voice  said :  "This 
is  Pensacola." 

She  turned,  surprised  to  see  Hale  standing  in  the  aisle, 
speaking  to  her.  Without  answering,  she  picked  up  her 

—235— 


The  Least  Resistance 

bag  and  squeezed  past  the  fat  woman,  who  was  dozing. 

Hale  followed  her  out  and  as  she  stepped  from  the 
train  he  took  her  arm  and  led  her  to  the  nearest  taxi. 

"I  don't  want  a  cab,"  she  said.    "I  want  to  walk  up." 

"You  are  going  to  stop  being  such  a  great  little  goose," 
he  answered,  without  relaxing  his  hold  on  her  arm. 

"I  don't  want  a  cab,"  she  repeated,  trying  to  look  very 
stern. 

"You  have  nothing  to  say  about  it." 

"But "    By  this  time  she  was  inside  the  cab,  and 

he  was  giving  directions  to  the  chauffeur.  She  told  her- 
self that  she  did  not  want  to  go  with  him,  but  that  she 
could  not  make  a  scene  before  the  company,  who  no 
doubt  were  agog  with  gossip  over  the  reconciliation.  In 
reality  she  was  very  glad  to  once  more  be  taken  care  of. 

They  dined  together,  and  Hale  ordered  the  best  that 
the  house  afforded — the  dinner  and  the  wine  seemed  per- 
fect to  Evelyn. 

No  word  was  said  about  the  break  in  their  friendship, 
but  that  night  he  came  into  her  dressing  room,  closed 
the  door,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  it.  She  knew  that 
he  had  been  drinking,  for  she  had  seen  a  stage  hand 
bringing  in  Scotch  highballs  from  a  neighbouring  saloon, 
but  there  was  a  wildness  about  him  that  was  not  alto- 
gether the  effect  of  whiskey. 

"Hale!"  she  exclaimed,  frightened  by  the  light  in  his 
eyes. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  said  huskily,  "only  be  good  to  me.  I 
have  no  soul,  and  hell  is  in  my  heart.  I  don't  ask  any- 
thing— just  don't  desert  me — I  need  you — I  need  you." 

"Yes,  yes,  Hale,"  she  said  soothingly,  and  laid  her  own 
cool  hands  on  his  hot  ones. 

He  closed  over  them  in  a  vise-like  grip,  which  loosened 
in  convulsive  pressures.    "I'm  no  good — I'm  a  rotter,  a 
beast;  but  your  goodness,  your  sweetness — — " 
-236- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Never  mind."  She  pressed  him  gently  into  a  chair, 
and  stood  by  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"God,  what  a  thing  I  am — sick  of   life — afraid   to 
<•          » 

"Now,  don't;  just  try  to  forget  it.  You  are  fine  and 
wonderful — yes,  you  are,  and  you  mustn't  think  other 
things."  She  began  to  stroke  his  hair  with  a  long,  sooth- 
ing stroke  that  brought  rest  to  his  jangling  nerves. 

She  went  on  talking  to  him  in  a  low,  gentle  voice,  grad- 
ually working  from  thoughts  of  himself  to  trivial  things 
of  the  day's  happening.  He  grew  quiet  and  relaxed,  and 
when  she  suggested  that  they  leave  the  theatre,  he  was 
ready  to  accompany  her  without  a  trace  of  the  emotional 
storm  remaining. 

Miss  Hunter  saw  them  emerge  from  the  dressing  room, 
and  remarked  to  the  wife  of  the  stage  manager,  "That 
affair  is  passing  beyond  the  bounds  of  decency." 


—237— 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

THE  season  dragged  on,  and  the  restored  friendship 
bore  the  strain  of  travelling  and  constant  association 
better  than  it  had  before  the  rupture.  Evelyn  resisted 
temptation  sufficiently  to  add  each  week  to  her  bank  ac- 
count, and  felt  more  comfortable  with  the  knowledge 
that  she  would  return  to  New  York  with  enough  money 
to  carry  her  through  the  summer. 

Hale  never  talked  of  his  plans  for  the  summer  ahead 
of  them,  and  once,  when  she  broached  the  subject,  he 
said  abruptly,  "I  refuse  to  think  beyond  the  day."  But 
her  question  did  make  him  think,  for  a  black  mood  came 
over  him  which  lasted  for  days. 

These  moods  had  no  depressing  effect  on  Evelyn,  but 
she  regretted  them  on  his  account,  and  surrounded  him 
with  a  gentle  sympathy  that  did  much  to  eradicate  them. 

The  company  worked  up  the  coast  line  and  the  last  two 
weeks  of  May  were  spent  in  Boston. 

This  was  Hale  Johnston's  home,  and  many  people  came 
to  claim  his  time  and  attention,  but  he  never  neglected 
her.  They  went  to  all  the  places  of  interest  in  a  big 
touring  car  placed  at  Hale's  disposal  by  an  old  school 
friend.  There  were  delightful  afternoon  concerts,  and 
charmingly  planned  dinners.  These  two  weeks  were 
among  the  most  perfect  and  beautiful  of  her  life,  but 
they  moved  her  farther  away  from  the  stern  realities  and 
necessities  of  the  daily  struggle. 

After  Boston  they  crossed  the  country  for  a  return  en- 
gagement of  two  weeks  in  Chicago.  This  was  to  close 
the  season. 

Chicago  in  the  first  weeks  of  June  showed  itself  in  its 
—238— 


The  Least  Resistance 

most  pleasing  aspect,  and  Evelyn,  from  her  window  that 
overlooked  Lake  Michigan,  which  glistened  and  danced 
in  the  sunlight,  and  shimmered  and  shone  in  the  moon- 
light, saw  the  best  of  it. 

To  escape  the  noise  and  heat  of  downtown  she  had 
gone  to  a  hotel  on  the  South  Side.  It  was  more  ex- 
pensive than  she  could  afford,  but  Hale  had  insisted  that 
they  have  a  decent  place  to  live  the  last  weeks  of  the 
season. 

"You'll  be  back  in  New  York  in  those  awful  dumps 
soon  enough,"  he  said  in  his  selfishness,  never  thinking 
that  the  money  she  might  save  now  would  make  those 
same  "dumps"  much  more  bearable.  Money  had  no  value 
to  Hale  beyond  its  present  purchasing  power,  and  he 
could  never  see  the  need  of  denying  to-day  for  a  time 
that  was  ahead. 

For  some  time  past — the  last  week  in  Boston  it  be- 
gan— he  had  been  in  a  bitter,  sullen  mood,  and  Evelyn 
had  consented  to  this  new  extravagance  in  order  to  see 
him  through  the  bad  time.  She  had  grown  to  feel  a  real 
responsibility  for  him,  and  he  took  advantage  of  her 
sympathy  and  indulged  in  all  of  the  eccentricities  of  his 
wilful,  warped  nature. 

The  last  week  in  Chicago  he  threw  off  his  depression, 
but  Evelyn,  who  had  come  to  understand  him  well,  was 
aware  that  it  was  a  throwing  off  engendered  by  a  deter- 
mination to  suffer  no  more.  The  demon  was  not  van- 
quished, but  lurked  in  the  background,  to  spring  forward 
on  the  least  provocation. 

Therefore,  to  keep  him  cheerful  and  normal  during 
the  last  two  weeks  she  fell  in  with  all  of  his  plans ;  al- 
lowed him  to  spend  his  money  riotously  with  no  checking 
word  from  her. 

He  lunched  and  dined  her ;  he  hired  a  car  by  the  week, 
and  they  drove  to  and  from  the  theatre,  thus  escaping 
the  dirt  and  tedium  of  the  trains.  They  made  all-day 

—239— 


The  Least  Resistance 

motor  trips  to  adjacent  resorts,  returning  just  in  time  for 
the  evening  performance. 

Hale's  behaviour  during  all  this  time  aroused  Evelyn's 
curiosity,  and  piqued  her  vanity.  He  seemed  almost  un- 
aware of  her  presence ;  in  a  dreamlike  mood,  as  though 
there  were  no  such  things  as  thoughts  or  feelings.  But 
the  least  effort  to  withdraw  herself  from  him  was  a 
signal  for  a  vehement  protest  and  a  bitter  speech. 

"You'll  be  rid  of  me  soon  enough — can't  you  stand  one 
more  day?" 

"Oh,  Hale,  it  isn't  that." 

This  was  always  his  attitude  that  everything  would 
end  with  the  closing  of  the  season.  Evelyn  remembered 
with  a  little  smile  the  expression  current  among  actors : 
"He  loved  her,  but  the  season  closed." 

She  wondered  if  he  really  would  be  willing  to  see  her 
no  more.  She  knew  that  she  suited  him — he  had  often 
told  her  that  he  had  never  gotten  along  with  any  one 
so  well.  Evelyn  thought  of  these  things  with  no  emo- 
tion save  a  real  thankfulness  that  he  had  never  taken  any 
hold  on  her  affections. 

Alone  in  her  room  that  overlooked  the  lake,  thoughts 
of  Hale  scarcely  ever  obtruded  themselves.  When  she 
was  not  planning  for  the  future,  trying  to  decide  on  some 
course  that  promised  success,  her  mind  would  conjure  up 
visions  of  Hubbard  in  his  new  life. 

Again  and  again  she  pictured  the  plantation,  the  cotton 
fields,  that  memories  of  her  childhood  supplied ;  the  old- 
fashioned  home  he  had  described  to  her,  built  by 
slave  labour  before  the  war,  built  so  solidly  that  time 
had  made  little  impression  on  it.  Inconvenient  and  hard 
to  heat  in  the  winter,  but  a  wonderful  place  in  the  sum- 
mer, with  its  great  hall  that  ran  through  the  centre,  the 
four  large  rooms  that  flanked  the  hall,  and  the  kitchen 
connected  by  an  uncovered  brickway  with  the  dining 
room. 

— 240 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

She  could  even  see  the  old  furniture  and  the  family 
portraits  on  the  wall.  Clearer  than  anything  she  could 
picture  the  green  stretch  in  front  of  the  house,  the  great 
peony  bushes,  and  in  the  spring  the  bridal  wreath  bush 
that  grew  by  the  porch.  The  row  of  locust  trees  that 
made  the  air  heavy  with  fragrance,  and  beyond  the  blue 
lake  that  was  the  eastern  boundary  of  the  plantation, 
and  especially  dear  to  Grandmother,  as  it  lessened  con- 
siderably her  fencing  expenses. 

All  of  these  things  Evelyn  knew,  and  during  the  wake- 
ful hours  of  the  night  she  pieced  them  together  to  make 
a  complete  picture  of  the  surroundings  of  Hubbard. 

She  liked  to  think  of  him  as  a  planter — there  was 
something  broad  and  romantic  in  the  word  that  suited 
her  feeling  for  him. 

And  between  her  and  this  happiness  stood  the  reeking, 
almost  reeling,  specimen  of  humanity  who  had  passed 
her  like  a  phantom  in  the  twilight.  Thoughts  of  free- 
dom, of  divorce,  fluttered  through  her  brain,  but  he 
had  never  asked,  never  even  suggested.  He  had  given 
her  up  entirely  when  he  heard  that  she  was  married. 
Perhaps  he  didn't  believe  in  divorces.  She  knew  that  he 
had  been  brought  up  in  a  religion  that  did  not  look  kindly 
on  the  separation  of  man  and  wife. 

With  a  patient  sigh  Evelyn  turned  over,  and  soon  sleep 
stilled  her  tired  brain.  With  sleep  came  dreams  of  Brat- 
ton  Wayne,  and  always  in  these  dreams  she  was  in  Paris 
with  him,  and  they  were  driving  furiously  up  boulevards, 
down  avenues,  never  arriving  at  their  destination.  She 
grew  cold  and  dizzy  in  the  speeding  car,  and  shrieked  to 
the  chauffeur  to  stop — the  next  moment  she  was  awake. 

Night  and  its  silence  was  about  her  and  through  the 
wide-open  window  the  great  lake  lay  brooding  and  sombre 
in  the  waning  light  of  the  moon.  The  world  was  at  rest, 
at  peace,  hushed  in  the  great,  still  beauty,  growing  strong 
and  fresh  for  the  day  ahead — protected  and  ordered  by 

—241— 


The  Least  Resistance 

something — by  God.  A  prayer  was  on  her  lips,  a  peti- 
tion that  he  would  protect  and  order  her  life :  "For  I  am 
very  weak,  God,  and  life  is  so  hard." 

The  next  day  was  the  last  Saturday  of  the  season. 
There  was  a  matinee,  then  dinner  at  the  La  Salle  with 
Hale,  and  back  to  the  theatre  for  the  evening  perform- 
ance. 

The  dinner  ordered  in  advance  was  the  last  word  in 
the  art  of  dining — Hale  had  brought  his  genius  for  high- 
living  to  bear  on  it.  In  spite  of  its  perfection  Hale  ate 
little,  but  the  amount  he  drank  frightened  Evelyn,  used 
as  she  was  to  his  prodigality  in  that  direction. 

She  said  nothing,  knowing  full  well  that  he  was  trying 
to  deaden  some  ache.  Neither  had  spoken  of  this  being 
the  last  night;  they  tried  to  be  gay,  but  with  poor  suc- 
cess. Evelyn  was  filled  with  thoughts  of  the  summer 
ahead  of  her  in  New  York,  and  Hale  was  solemnly  intent 
on  drowning  some  unwelcome  emotion. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  dinner  he  grew  recklessly  gay 
and  by  the  time  they  had  reached  the  theatre  his  spirits 
were  higher  than  she  had  ever  known  them,  but  she  knew 
also  what  the  reaction  would  be. 

Evelyn  was  free  after  the  first  act,  but  it  had  been  her 
custom  to  wait  for  Hale.  To-night  she  packed  her  trunk 
leisurely,  then  sat  down  with  a  magazine,  but  through 
her  half-open  door  she  could  hear  the  actors  on  the  stage, 
and  she  found  herself  listening  with  fresh  interest  to  the 
scene  between  the  three  men — Blair,  Mortimer,  and  Hale 
Johnston.  She  heard  the  powerful,  insolent  brutality  of 
Blair,  the  effective  declamatory  voice  of  Mortimer,  and 
then  the  cold,  incisive  delivery  of  Hale,  which  changed 
as  he  was  cornered  by  the  others,  into  a  fiery,  tortured 
quality.  Then  came  the  pistol  shot  and  Hale's  sensa- 
tional death  cry. 

"He  has  it  in  him,"  Evelyn  said  to  herself.  "He  could 
— 242 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

be  great  if  only  he'd  keep  straight."  She  had  a  quixotic 
wish  to  give  herself  to  the  cause  of  keeping  him  straight, 
but  her  practical  mind  knew  that  the  little  influence  she 
had  over  him  would  be  of  brief  duration. 

The  act  was  over,  and  Evelyn  heard  him  run  up  the 
stairs  to  his  room.  A  little  while  later  he  was  at  her 
door,  dressed  for  the  street.  He  came  in,  closed  the  door, 
and  stood  with  his  back  to  it,  as  he  had  so  many  times, 
looking  at  her  with  eyes  wildly  bright  from  drink  and 
the  excitement  of  the  strenuous  scene  he  had  just  finished. 

"Well,"  he  said  in  a  quick,  harsh  voice,  "it's  over.  I'm 
breaking  the  rule  of  my  life  in  saying  good-bye  to  you.  I 
hate  good-byes — they  are  so  meaningless,  or  so — devas- 
tating. But  you've  been  fine  to  put  up  with  me.  I'm  a 
failure  and  a  rotter !  There's  a  girl  in  Boston" — he  gave 
a  short,  reckless  laugh — "worth  a  million.  She  likes  me 
— we've  been  engaged  years.  I'm  going  through  with  it 
— it'll  please  my  family;  reconcile  them — they'll  provide 
liberally.  I'm  going  to  hit  all  the  high  spots  of  life,  and 
then  go  out  like  this."  He  reached  over  and  switched  off 
the  lights — the  room  was  in  darkness.  The  next  mo- 
ment Evelyn  was  in  his  arms,  strained  to  him  in  a  mad, 
stifling  embrace. 

"God  take  care  of  you,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  wish  I 
could." 

He  left  that  night  for  Boston.  Evelyn  waited  for  the 
company's  move  the  next  morning.  Hale  was  gone,  but 
his  influence  remained,  an  influence  that  affected  her 
more  profoundly  and  dangerously  than  she  dreamed. 

He  had  imposed  on  her  a  philosophy  of  life  which  was 
radically  opposed  to  her  nature  and  mentality.  He  had 
shaken  her  faith  in  the  practicality  of  virtue  and  thrift; 
aided  her  in  her  gravitation  towards  luxury.  He  had  set 
her  a  standard  of  living  that  she  couldn't  afford;  made 
her  faintly  intolerant  of  the  flat  and  commonplace; 

—243— 


The  Least  Resistance 

awakened  in  her  a  sense  of  her  artistic  value,  and  aroused 
her  curiosity  as  to  the  power  of  her  sex  appeal. 

But  deeper  and  subtler  in  its  effect  was  his  good-bye. 
For  months  he  had  absorbed  her  time  and  attention, 
drawn  on  her  sympathy,  estranged  her  from  the  other 
members  of  the  company,  and,  as  platonic  as  their  rela- 
tion had  been,  there  had  been  no  attempt  on  his  part  to 
keep  the  tongue  of  scandal  silent ;  rather  he  had  courted 
it.  Then  he  had  wiped  her  out  with  a  few,  no  doubt 
carefully  planned,  dramatic  sentences. 

True,  he  had,  in  the  course  of  their  friendship,  been 
generous  and  considerate,  but  in  a  selfish,  material  way — 
she  had  always  been  the  one  who  fitted  in.  Evelyn  was 
not  in  love  with  him,  but  her  regard  had  been  genuine, 
and,  in  a  way,  unselfish.  He  suffered,  but  she  knew  that 
he  wanted  her  because  he  couldn't  have  her.  His  real 
agony  was  that  Life  had  beaten  him  into  accepting  some- 
thing that  he  didn't  want. 

The  company  reached  New  York  Monday  afternoon, 
and  a  short  time  later  Evelyn  was  settled  in  a  little  room 
on  Forty-fifth  Street.  There  was  the  inevitable  couch 
covered  with  a  faded  spread,  the  rickety  dresser-wash- 
stand,  the  worn  carpet,  and  the  cheap  pictures  on  the 
hard  green  wall.  This  was  what  she  had  returned  to — 
what  she  was  to  live  in  daily  contact  with  until  Fate  or 
Fortune  smiled  on  her.  Across  the  street  stood  the  great 
brick  and  stone  hotel,  the  embodiment  of  comfort  and 
luxury.  She  would  have  felt  at  home  there;  here  she 
was  a  stranger,  a  lonely  stranger  with  neither  the  energy 
nor  the  inclination  to  sally  forth  to  the  fifty-cent  table 
d'hote  below  stairs. 


—244— 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

FOR  a  month  Evelyn  searched  industriously  for  work, 
but  with  no  success,  then  suddenly  the  monotony 
of  the  days  was  broken  by  a  two-weeks'  stock  engage- 
ment in  Washington. 

She  was  sent  on  to  replace  the  ingenue  who  was  out 
of  the  cast  on  account  of  illness.  They  were  two  hot, 
hard-working  weeks,  but  Evelyn  was  grateful  for  them, 
and  enjoyed  the  association  with  the  company  of  inter- 
esting, capable  people.  It  was  over  all  too  soon  and  she 
was  again  in  New  York,  face  to  face  with  the  old  situa- 
tion. 

During  her  absence  her  room  had  been  rented,  and  she 
was  forced  to  seek  other  quarters.  She  decided  to  go 
farther  uptown,  and  to  find  a  place  near  the  Park  if 
possible.  Her  search  was  rewarded  by  a  very  pleasant 
room  and  fairly  good  board  that  could  be  had  for  eight 
dollars  a  week. 

There  were  few  people  in  the  house.  Every  one  who 
could  afford  it  had  forsaken  the  heated  city.  Only  those 
held  by  work  or  poverty  were  staying  in  town  through 
the  hot  month  of  August. 

The  papers  were  filled  with  prostration  lists.  The 
parks  and  recreation  piers  were  crowded  by  day  and 
night  with  the  poor  in  a  frantic  effort  to  find  a  breath  of 
air.  To  escape  their  stifling  rooms,  beds  were  spread 
on  fire  escapes  and  sweltering  humanity  slept  out  under 
the  night  sky. 

Every  morning  at  ten  Evelyn  journeyed  downtown 
through  the  heat  to  see  what  was  to  be  had  in  the  way 
of  engagements.  She  sat  for  hours  in  stuffy  offices, 

—245— 


The  Least  Resistance 

stood  in  a  perspiring  patient  crowd  in  managers'  ante- 
rocms,  hurried  down  baking  streets  with  the  sun  beating 
pitilessly  down  on  her.  She  bore  all  with  a  grim  deter- 
mination to  see  the  game  through,  even  if  at  the  end  she 
collapsed — there  were  moments  when  she  felt  the  collapse 
was  near.  A  sudden  dizziness  and  tension  in  the  head 
made  her  think  of  sunstrokes  and  prostrations  and  in 
alarm  she  would  dash  into  a  soda  fountain  for  a  cooling 
drink.  Somewhat  revived  she  returned  to  the  chase. 

It  was  the  middle  of  September  before  she  secured  an 
engagement.  And  in  spite  of  her  necessity  she  debated 
long  whether  she  should  accept  it.  The  play  was  not  to 
open  before  the  middle  of  October.  That  meant  a  month 
of  rehearsing,  with  no  assurance  that  it  would  last  more 
than  a  week ;  in  fact,  chances  were  against  it,  for  the  star 
was  a  notoriously  unsuccessful  one.  But  with  no  other 
prospect  before  her,  Evelyn  decided  to  venture  it. 

The  rehearsal  dragged  along  for  two  weeks  and  then 
the  director  was  changed.  He  hurried  them  along,  and 
the  out-of-town  opening  was  moved  up  a  week.  This 
was  good  news  to  the  weary  company,  and  they  started 
off  to  Atlantic  City  in  high  spirits. 

Evelyn  had  never  been  to  the  famous  seaside  resort 
and  she  enjoyed  her  stay  there,  especialy  as  the  play  was 
well  received,  and  the  company  gay  and  friendly. 

They  played  around  the  East,  and  after  four  weeks  of 
business  that  dropped  from  indifferent  to  positively  bad, 
the  company  was  closed  and  sent  back  to  New  York. 

The  weeks  flew  by,  and  it  was  Christmas  Eve  before 
another  chance  to  work  came  Evelyn's  way.  It  was  a 
silly  part  in  a  small  time  vaudeville  act,  but  her  funds 
were  so  low  that  she  took  the  first  thing  offered  her.  The 
act  tided  her  over  the  New  Year,  but  passed  away  soon 
after. 

There  was  another  month  of  idleness  and  anxiety,  then 
a  chance  meeting  with  Sam  Foster  secured  her  a  spring 
^—246 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

stock  engagement.  The  salary  was  small,  barely  enough 
to  cover  her  wardrobe  and  living  expenses,  but  anything 
was  better  than  her  present  situation. 

The  long,  hard  season  had  pulled  her  down,  but  it  had 
brought  a  new  beauty.  The  eyes,  always  large  and  ap- 
pealing, had  grown  deeper,  sadder ;  the  question  in  them 
intensified.  They  dominated  the  pale  face,  the  frail  body 
— they  gave  out  the  very  essence  of  her  personality. 

Evelyn  knew,  with  the  right  setting,  the  right  clothes, 
she  would  pass  for  a  beauty.  It  was  so  easy  in  her  room 
with  a  few  old  draperies  of  a  becoming  shade  to  make 
herself  not  only  picturesque  but  ineffably  lovely.  But  one 
couldn't  go  work  hunting  in  shabby  draperies,  and  with 
a  depleted  bank  account  it  was  impossible  even  with  her 
deft  fingers  to  have  clothes  that  were  effective. 

She  felt  a  wild  resentment  that  she  was  so  hampered 
by  poverty,  so  cut  off  from  even  presenting  herself  to  an 
advantage. 

"Oh,  for  just  a  little  money,"  she  would  say  to  herself 
fiercely  as  she  worked  on  through  the  spring  for  a  mere 
pittance. 

The  spring  passed  and  summer  came,  closing  the  stock 
company.  By  an  effort  that  had  been  almost  super- 
human, that  meant  denying  herself  the  proper  food,  that 
meant  a  room  in  the  cheapest  lodging  house,  that  meant 
sewing  late  at  night  to  make  her  own  costumes,  Evelyn 
returned  to  New  York  with  one  hundred  and  forty 
dollars  in  her  pocket  book. 

One  hundred  and  forty  dollars,  and  this  the  middle  of 
June !  With  the  best  of  luck  she  could  scarcely  begin  to 
earn  money  before  the  middle  of  August.  And  every- 
where she  heard  that  it  was  to  be  a  late  season — few  com- 
panies except  those  whose  cast  had  been  engaged  last 
spring  would  open  until  after  Election  Day.  November 
— what  would  become  of  her? 

She  returned  to  the  uptown  boarding  house  and  strug- 

—247— 


The  Least  Resistance 

gled  through  June  and  July.  Then  August  came  again, 
hot  and  pitiless  in  its  infliction  of  suffering  on  the  city. 

After  dinner  she  sat  out  on  the  front  steps  of  the 
boarding  house,  listening  to  the  desultory  talk  of  three 
of  the  young  men  boarders.  It  was  chiefly  of  the  weather 
and  the  heat  victims,  of  trips  to  Coney  Island  and 
other  neighbouring  beaches. 

No  air  was  stirring,  and  in  the  quietness  of  the  evening 
the  voices  of  people  on  other  steps  along  the  street  could 
be  heard — they,  too,  were  discussing  the  heat.  But 
Evelyn  was  not  thinking  of  the  heat,  nor  hearing  the  talk 
that  was  going  on  about  her.  She  was  going  back  over 
the  day,  the  long  hours  spent  waiting  to  be  told  that  she 
was  not  the  type  or  that  the  part  had  been  filled,  or  some 
other  words  that  killed  hope  in  her  heart.  She  had  paid 
her  board  to-day,  and  her  savings  were  reduced  to  sixty 
dollars.  Sixty  dollars,  and  it  might  be  November  before 
she  got  work ! 

"Will  you  come,  too,  Miss  Lane  ?"  a  voice  was  asking. 

"Where  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Where?"  Bert  Hartley  asked  with  a  good-natured 
laugh.  "Down  to  the  Astor  roof.  A  night  like  this 
you've  got  to  kill  yourself  or  have  a  party.  Come  along, 
and  be  a  real  belle  with  three  beaux." 

"I'd  like  to  go,  but  I'll  have  to  change  my  dress." 

"All  right,  hustle  along." 

She  felt  her  way  up  the  dark  stairs  into  her  room  and 
lighted  the  gas.  A  sudden  association  in  her  mind 
brought  back  the  hot  night  that  Bob  had  stumbled  in, 
pale  and  frightened — shaken  by  the  death  of  young 
Baker.  Every  incident  of  the  evening  returned — the 
heat,  the  bottle  of  whiskey  that  he  brought  in  later,  his 
drunken  stupor,  the  groans  that  came  from  him,  and  then 
the  phonograph  across  the  way  that  lifted  her  mind  from 
its  sordid  surroundings  with  its  suggestion  of  beauty  and 
hope.  She  remembered  that  she  had  said  to  herself,  with 
—248— 


The  Least  Resistance 

the  vision  of  young  Baker  before  her,  "There  is  always 
that  way  out." 

While  these  memories  were  surging  to  the  surface  of 
consciousness  she  was  dressing  and  arranging  her  hair. 
Dressed,  she  turned  from  the  mirror  with  a  sigh.  The 
result  was  so  far  from  her  ideal.  Her  clothes  were  in 
good  taste,  but  so  commonplace ;  so  utterly  lacking  in  dis- 
tinction. 

The  greeting  accorded  her  by  the  three  cavaliers  on  the 
steps  revived  her  spirits,  and  she  set  off  with  something 
of  a  new  gaiety  in  her  heart. 

They  found  the  roof  well  filled  and  were  obliged  to 
take  a  table  near  the  elevator. 

Afterwards  Evelyn  remembered  that  there  were  many 
attractive  women  about,  nearly  all  in  white,  and  attended 
by  prosperous-looking  men.  There  were  plants  and 
palms,  hurrying  waiters,  cooling  drinks,  and  through  it 
all  the  crash  and  swing  of  the  orchestra.  But  all  these 
things  were  but  the  background  of  the  evening. 

The  vital  thing,  the  thing  that  sent  the  colour  to  her 
face  and  added  an  extra  beat  to  her  heart,  was  the  sight 
of  a  large,  well-built  man  with  a  smooth,  kindly  face, 
from  which  looked  sleepy,  observing  eyes.  As  he  passed 
her  table  a  well-kept  hand  with  a  large  signet  ring  on 
the  little  finger  stroked  his  chin.  He  stood,  looking  about 
the  room,  evidently  trying  to  locate  some  one.  His  eyes 
swept  Evelyn's  table.  Their  eyes  met ;  there  was  a  faint 
gleam  of  recognition  in  his,  then  he  turned  away. 

After  this  she  talked  gaily  with  the  men  about  her. 
Her  spirits  rose  and  rose,  and  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm 
and  hope  she  faced  herself  in  her  mirror  after  she  had 
said  good  night  to  the  cavaliers. 

"He  recognised  you!  He  likes  your  type!  It's  your 
chance !" 

Something  in  Brandon's  eyes  had  relit  courage.  Once 

—249— 


The  Least  Resistance 

he  had  said,  "Come  back  to  me  when  you  have  your 
divorce — I  like  your  type." 

Something  in  the  fleeting  glance  on  the  roof  had  said, 
"I  still  like  your  type." 

Evelyn  made  her  plans  quickly,  definitely,  and  then, 
like  a  good  soldier,  slept  on  the  eve  of  battle. 


—250— 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

FROM  her  shopping  expedition  the  next  day  Evelyn 
returned  to  the  boarding  house  with  thirty-five  of 
her  precious  dollars  gone,  but  with  a  gown  and  hat  that 
set  off  to  the  greatest  advantage  her  peculiar  and  poetic 
loveliness.  It  was  midsummer,  and  she  had  been  able 
to  get  things  at  half  their  former  price,  and  so,  though 
she  had  paid  little  for  her  outfit,  it  satisfied  her  exacting 
taste. 

After  dinner  she  tried  on  the  costume  and  surveyed 
herself  in  the  mirror.  The  dress  was  soft  and  white  with 
an  overskirt  bordered  in  embroidered  roses  of  a  deep  red 
with  a  touch  of  yellow  at  the  centre.  It  was  cut  low 
at  the  neck  and  sloped  over  the  shoulders  in  a  graceful 
line  that  ended  at  the  frilled  wrists.  A  soft  black  hat 
with  roses  that  repeated  the  colour  on  the  skirt,  and 
black  slippers  that  fitted  over  white  silk  stockings  com- 
pleted the  effective  costume. 

With  a  pleased  sigh  she  removed  the  new  clothes  and 
laid  them  away  in  a  sachet-scented  drawer. 

The  next  morning,  at  eleven,  dressed  in  the  quaint, 
becoming  costume,  and  giving  forth  the  faint,  seductive 
fragrance  of  orris  as  she  passed,  Evelyn  ascended  the 
stairs  that  led  to  the  office  of  Charles  Brandon,  the  all- 
powerful  manager  in  whose  hands  the  morning's  decision 
lay.  She  was  cool  and  calm  outwardly,  making  a  wel- 
come picture  on  the  hot  August  day. 

The  office  was  filled,  as  it  had  been  the  morning  several 
years  ago  when  she  had  interviewed  the  great  man,  and 
been  given  such  an  encouraging  reception. 

The  people  grouped  about  looked  at  her  as  she  came 

—251— 


The  Least  Resistance 

in.  Two  girls  ceased  their  whispered  conversation,  and 
one  diligently  powdered  her  nose  to  be  a  stronger  com- 
petitor of  the  new  arrival.  A  man  rose  to  give  her  a 
chair.  It  was  the  same  scene,  the  same  atmosphere — to 
Evelyn  it  almost  seemed  that  the  same  people  were  wait- 
ing. 

After  a  wait  of  half  an  hour  through  which  the  tele- 
phone buzzed  and  the  mechanical  voice  of  the  operator 
cut  through  the  subdued  talk  of  the  actors,  the  door  of 
the  private  office  opened  and  Brandon  appeared. 

He,  too,  was  just  as  Evelyn  remembered  him,  cool, 
agreeable  and  patient.  One  actor  was  taken  in  for  a 
short  talk.  He  came  out  with  a  blue  roll  in  his  hand, 
which  meant  that  he  had  been  given  a  part.  There  was 
an  order  to  the  secretary  to  make  out  a  contract  for  Mr. 
Ellis. 

This  done,  Mr.  Brandon  went  on  with  the  others.  He 
was  sorry  that  he  had  nothing  to-day — they  should  come 
again — he  would  bear  them  in  mind.  Then  he  came  to 
Evelyn.  She  had  risen  to  meet  him. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said  to  her,  and  went  on  with  his 
dismissals. 

She  resumed  her  seat  until  his  voice  from  the  door 
of  the  private  office  asked  her  to  come  inside.  She  obeyed 
and  he  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"Your  face  is  familiar,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  recall 
your  name."  He  indicated  a  chair  for  her. 

"It  is  wonderful  that  you  should  remember  my  face, 
you've  only  seen  me  once.  That  was  in  this  room  several 
years  ago — you  offered  me  an  engagement  then " 

"Evidently  you  didn't  take  it,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her. 

"No,  I  was  looking  for  a  joint  engagement.  You 
wouldn't  have  me  then,  but  you  said  to  come  back  when 
I  was — free — that  you  would  give  me  work.  You  said 
you  liked  my  type,"  she  finished  with  artistic  naivete. 

"I  remember  you  perfectly,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
—252— 


The  Least  Resistance 

closely.     "Time  has  improved  you.     Well,  are  you?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes — I'm  free,"  she  answered,  in  her  quick,  breath- 
less way. 

"All  right,  Miss " 

"Lane — Evelyn  Lane  is  my  name,"  she  said,  and  he 
smiled  approvingly. 

"Well,  now,  let's  see.  I've  got  to  keep  my  promise, 
haven't  I  ?"  he  asked  as  he  opened  a  drawer  and  took  out 
a  long  sheet  of  paper.  "I  haven't  much  open,  but  we 
must  do  something  for  you.  There  is  a  play  going  on 
after  Election.  That's  my  big  production  for  the  year, 
and  there  is  a  part  in  it  that  would  just  suit  you,  a  good 
part.  How  is  that  ?" 

"Oh,  that  is  fine,  Mr.  Brandon,  but  it  is  so  long  off, 
and  I " 

"Need  work?"  he  asked  kindly,  his  eyes  playing  over 
her  with  a  gentle,  appraising  glance. 

"Yes,  very  much." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I  have  a  play 
rehearsing  downstairs,  and  there  is  a  girl  in  it  not  giving 
satisfaction.  We've  got  to  get  rid  of  her.  It  isn't  much 
of  a  part,  not  much  of  a  salary" — he  looked  at  her  a 
moment — "only  sixty  dollars,  but  it'll  tide  you  over,  and 
when  the  new  play  goes  on  I'll  give  you  a  good  part." 

"You  are  so  good !"  Her  eyes  closed  for  a  moment, 
and  when  they  opened  bright  tears  obscured  her  vision. 

To  himself  Brandon  was  saying,  "The  poor  little  thing ! 
The  idea  of  a  girl  like  that  being  up  against  it !  What  a 
dainty  little  thing  she  is;  how  untheatrical." 

"I'm  glad  you  are  pleased,"  he  said  aloud ;  "and  I  hope 
you  are  going  to  be  a  very  good  little  actress  so  that  I 
can  do  a  lot  for  you.  I  told  you  a  long  time  ago  I  liked 
your  type."  He  had  risen  and  was  holding  out  his  hand. 
"Go  downstairs  and  watch  the  rehearsal,  and  to-morrow 
come  in  to  sign  your  contract." 

—253— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Her  hand  was  in  his,  and  he  gave  it  a  friendly,  reas- 
suring shake. 

Without  a  word  Evelyn  passed  out  of  the  room,  and 
felt  her  way  down  the  stairs.  She  could  not  see  where 
she  was  going  for  tears  were  blinding  her  sight.  At  last ! 
at  last  a  chance !  A  grip  on  things  that  might  be  worth 
while. 

What  it  meant,  where  it  would  lead,  didn't  matter 
now.  It  meant  work,  and  a  chance.  And  perhaps  it 
meant  nothing  more  than  that  he  did  like  her  type,  and 
that  he  saw  in  her  acting  possibilities.  The  light  in  his 
eyes  said  more,  but  he  had  been  kind  and  tactful,  and 
Evelyn  was  profoundly  grateful. 

The  next  morning  at  ten  she  was  on  hand  for  the  re- 
hearsal. The  company  had  been  hard  at  work  for  ten 
days,  and  now  it  was  but  two  weeks  before  the  opening. 
Her  part  ran  through  two  acts  and  was  a  slight  affair 
with  only  a  few  lines  and  no  acting  chance,  but  it  re- 
quired two  gowns  and  an  evening  wrap.  When  she  went 
up  to  sign  her  contract  she  asked  Mr.  Brandon  about  the 
clothes. 

"Since  you  are  getting  a  small  salary,"  he  said,  "I'll 
find  the  evening  gown  and  wrap  for  you,  and  let  you  get 
the  afternoon  one  yourself.  That's  fair,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  more  than  that — it's  so  generous  of  you,"  she  re- 
plied. 

Brandon  smiled ;  he  was  used  to  actresses  taking  such 
things  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  be  bullied  out  of  him 
if  possible,  or  abused  for  it  when  he  refused.  He  thought 
again,  "How  untheatrical." 

"Did  Mr.  Payne  tell  you  your  colours?"  he  asked. 

"Yes ;  tan  in  the  first  act,  and  blue  in  the  last.  I  look 
horrid  in  both  colours,  but "  She  made  a  little  ges- 
ture as  though  it  were  of  no  importance. 

"Well,  see  Mr.  Payne,  and  tell  him  I  say  to  let  you 
wear  anything  that  doesn't  conflict  with  Miss  Gaynor 
—254— 


The  Least  Resistance 

or  Miss  Eggleston,  or  the  set.  Make  your  suggestion  to 
him  and  see  what  he  says." 

The  rehearsals  moved  on,  and  through  that  sixth  sense 
with  which  the  actor  reads  the  managerial  mind,  the 
company  sensed  that  Evelyn  was  a  favourite  at  head- 
quarters. Brandon  paid  no  direct  attention  to  her,  but 
there  was  something  in  his  voice  when  he  addressed  her 
that  spoke  volumes  to  the  wise  ones.  Then  she  was 
allowed  to  change  the  colour  of  her  costumes  to  becoming 
shades  rather  than  rigidly  following  the  colour  scheme  of 
the  producer — that  surely  meant  that  she  was  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  person  of  importance. 

The  women  of  the  company  looked  at  her  with  in- 
terest, and  even  Miss  Gaynor  was  most  gracious.  The 
men  were  polite,  even  cordial,  but  careful  to  avoid  any 
personal  note  that  might  make  it  appear  that  they  were 
desirous  of  treading  on  Brandon's  preserves. 

It  was  a  new  and  not  unpleasing  situation  to  Evelyn — 
to  be  observed,  to  be  treated  with  a  courtesy  which  said, 
"You  are  a  decidedly  worthwhile  person."  For  the  first 
time  she  enjoyed  rehearsing,  and  watched  with  interest 
the  play  grow  from  a  ragged,  uncertain  mass  into  a  defi- 
nite, smooth  whole. 

They  opened  in  Albany,  and  it  was  not  an  opening 
such  as  had  been  the  uncertain,  unprepared  one  of  the 
Hartwell  play.  Even  the  dress  rehearsal  was  smooth 
and  clean-cut.  The  well-built  scenery  was  in  the  hands 
of  a  competent  stage  crew,  the  actors  were  under  the 
direction  of  an  efficient  producer;  there  was  no  friction 
in  the  company,  for  the  dominating  personality  was  not  a 
temperamental  lady  star,  but  Brandon,  calm,  suave,  and 
forceful. 

Brandon  motored  up  from  New  York  with  a  party  of 
friends  and  after  the  opening  performance  Evelyn  saw 
him  with  these  same  friends  at  supper  in  the  hotel  res- 
taurant. She  had  come  in  with  Miss  Eggleston  and 

—255— 


The  Least  Resistance 

young  Stanley  Wells,  and  from  their  corner  they  ob- 
served and  discussed  the  managerial  group.  At  last 
Brandon's  eye  fell  on  them,  and  he  came  over  to  say  a 
few  words  about  the  play. 

"Well,  young  people,"  he  said  in  his  gracious  manner 
that  made  him  the  best-liked  manager  in  the  theatrical 
business;  "it  looks  as  if  we  have  a  hit.  It  was  a  little 
slow  to-night,  but  to-morrow  at  rehearsal  we'll  fix  that. 
You  two,"  he  said,  indicating  Miss  Eggleston  and  young 
Wells,  "did  your  love  scene  very  well,  but  you  can  get  a 
good  deal  more  out  of  it.  And  as  for  you,  young  lady," 
he  said,  looking  down  on  Evelyn,  "you  were  very  nice — 
very  nice."  Their  eyes  met  for  an  instant,  then  he  turned 
to  the  others  to  bid  them  "Good  night." 

"Well,  he  is  a  prince,"  Stanley  Wells  said. 

"Do  you  know  any  other  man  in  this  business  who 
would  come  over  and  pass  out  glad  news  the  way  he 
did  ?"  Miss  Eggleston  asked. 

"I  tell  you  I  am  glad  to  get  with  him.  I've  been  try- 
ing for  four  years  to  get  in  one  of  his  companies,  and 
now  that  I'm  in  I  mean  to  stay.  He's  a  prince,  I  tell 
you,"  Wells  repeated. 

"Have  you  ever  worked  for  him  before,  Miss  Lane?" 
the  other  girl  asked. 

"No ;  but  he  is  kind,  isn't  he  ?" 

"Kind  ?"  the  enthusiastic  Wells  burst  in.  "I  told  you 
that  he  was  a  prince." 

Evelyn  smiled  at  his  enthusiasm,  and  a  thrill  of  pride 
swept  over  her  that  she  had  attracted  a  man  so  high  up, 
so  liked  and  respected  by  his  people.  She  felt  a  warm 
glow  as  though  she  had  a  share  in  this  praise.  She 
glanced  over  to  his  table  and  saw  the  large,  well-dressed 
figure,  the  well-shaped  head,  the  kindly,  shrewd  eyes, 
with  the  deep  lurking  sensuality  in  them.  Evelyn  felt 
that  she  had  known  him  a  long  time,  and  that  in  some 
subtle  way  she  was  a  part  of  him. 
—256— 


The  Least  Resistance 

For  two  weeks  "The  Holdover"  played  around  New 
York,  and  then  was  taken  in  to  try  its  luck  with  a  Broad- 
way audience.  It  was  received  with  faint  praise,  but  for 
the  first  few  weeks  there  were  good  houses  and  the  com- 
pany hoped  that  in  spite  of  adverse  criticism  they  would 
last  for  many  weeks.  But  with  the  opening  of  other  and 
stronger  plays  business  fell  away. 

In  spite  of  the  talk  of  a  late  season  every  house  in 
town  was  open,  and  each  week  held  two  or  three  first 
nights. 

Evelyn,  for  the  first  time  in  a  Broadway  production, 
found  every  detail  of  absorbing  interest.  She  read  re- 
views and  theatrical  news  avidly,  and  not  only  listened  to 
the  talk  of  the  company,  but  stated  her  own  opinions  with 
a  new  force  and  definiteness.  She  attended  matinees 
that  did  not  conflict  with  her  own.  Other  afternoons 
she  went  with  Miss  Eggleston  or  Miss  Gaynor  to  tea 
rooms  or  art  exhibits,  and  often  after  the  evening  per- 
formance one  of  the  men  would  invite  her  and  Marie 
Eggleston  to  supper. 

Evelyn  never  went  alone  with  a  man.  Some  deep  in- 
stinct told  her  that  friendship  with  men  was  for  her  an 
impossible  thing.  She  seemed  to  have  no  faculty  for 
holding  men  off ;  it  was  so  her  nature  to  fit  in.  But  she 
had  resolved  that  there  would  be  no  more  profitless  fit- 
ting in. 

"What  a  nice  place  you  have  here,"  Marie  Eggleston 
said  one  afternoon  when  she  had  dropped  in  on  Evelyn 
for  a  cup  of  tea. 

Evelyn  was  established  in  a  pleasant  room,  high  up 
in  one  of  the  better  class  hotels  in  the  theatrical  dis- 
trict. She  felt  that  her  home  must  be  in  keeping  with 
the  atmosphere  of  interest  and  importance  that  sur- 
rounded her  in  the  company. 

"Yes,  it's  pleasant  enough,  away  from  the  noise  and 
dirt,  and  really  delightful  at  night.  I  often  sit  by  this 

—257— 


The  Least  Resistance 

window  when  I  come  home  and  look  out  over  the  city. 
It's  nice  to  be  here,  quiet  and  alone  after  the  day." 

Marie  looked  at  her  sharply.  "I  hate  being  alone;  it 
nearly  drives  me  mad  to  be  by  myself  for  an  hour."  She 
got  up,  moved  to  the  window,  then  back  to  the  chair, 
snatched  up  a  magazine,  and  began  to  hum  a  popular 
air.  Marie  was  never  still,  never  quiet.  "It's  my  tem- 
perament, I  suppose."  She  had  an  idea  that  restlessness 
was  an  indication  of  the  artistic  temperament,  and  there- 
fore she  made  no  effort  to  check  her  unquiet  ways. 
"Haven't  you  any  cigarettes  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  over  there  under  that  red  book,"  Evelyn  an- 
swered. 

Marie  ripped  open  the  box  and  passed  them  to  Evelyn, 
who  declined. 

"I've  never  learned  to  like  them,"  she  apologised. 

"You're  lucky — I  couldn't  live  without  them.  What 
do  you  think  about  our  play  ?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Do  you  mean  how  long  it  is  going  to  last  ?" 

Marie  nodded  at  her  through  the  smoke. 

"I  haven't  an  idea.  Miss  Gaynor  said  last  night  that 
it  was  nearly  all  paper  in  the  house." 

"I  wonder  how  C.  B.  likes  that?  Of  course,  he  is  a 
good  loser,  but  he  won't  let  it  run  on  much  longer." 

"It's  too  bad,  isn't  it?"  Evelyn  was  conscious  that 
Marie  was  trying  to  find  out  what  inside  information  she 
had.  As  a  matter  of  fact  Evelyn  was  as  much  in  the 
dark  as  the  other  members  of  the  company. 

She  rarely  saw  Brandon.  He  was  rushed  just  now, 
getting  out  his  road  companies,  away  several  days  out  of 
each  week  attending  openings.  He  had  no  time  to  give 
to  personal  matters. 

Evelyn  thought  little  of  him,  but  when  she  did  it  was 
with  a  warm  glow  of  gratitude  in  her  heart,  not  only  for 
her  present  engagement,  but  for  his  having  lifted  her  up, 
given  her  some  position  and  some  hope  for  the  future. 
-258- 


The  Least  Resistance 

He  had  sent  her  word  to  have  pictures  taken  and  turn 
them  into  the  office.  This  morning  a  picture  and  a  press 
story  about  her  had  appeared  in  a  leading  paper.  Evelyn 
had  not  seen  it,  and  Marie  had  not  yet  spoken  of  it, 
though  it  was  the  cause  of  her  visit. 

"I  hope  we  aren't  going  to  close.  I'm  still  in  debt  for 
my  clothes.  It  will  be  Thanksgiving  before  I  am  out  of 
the  woods.  I  think  C.  B.  might  have  helped  me  find  my 
gowns.  You  are  lucky,  not  having  to  worry,"  she  said, 
turning  to  Evelyn. 

"I  have  just  as  much  cause  for  worry  as  you  have," 
Evelyn  answered. 

"You  don't  have  to  worry  about  jobs — at  least  that's 
what  Morey  put  in  the  paper  about  you  this  morning." 

"About  me?    I  didn't  see  anything." 

"Oh,  there  was  a  press  story  in  the  Telegraph  that 
Brandon  had  plans  for  you."  Marie  laid  stress  on 
"plans." 

"I  must  see  it."  Evelyn  went  to  the  telephone  and 
asked  to  have  a  paper  sent  up.  But  the  newsstand  was 
out  of  the  morning  papers,  and  she  was  forced  to  wait 
until  she  could  go  out  to  get  one. 

When  she  read  it,  her  face  flushed.  It  seemed  so  un- 
real, and  rather  cheap.  They  wrote  of  her  as  if  she  were 
a  trick  pony  or  a  bale  of  goods,  but  it  was  part  of  the 
game  of  "getting  on,"  and  one  must  learn  to  like  it.  That 
night  Brandon  was  on  the  stage,  and,  as  he  passed  her, 
he  stopped  to  ask  if  she  had  seen  the  paper. 

"Yes,  I  saw  it  this  afternoon.  I  scarcely  recognised 
my  unimportant  self." 

"Put  a  lot  in  about  you  later,"  he  said.  "Having  a 
good  time  these  days?" 

"Yes,  and  I'm  so  glad  to  be  at  work." 

"That's  the  proper  spirit"  And  he  walked  on,  but 
with  the  memory  of  her  eyes  stirring  his  blood,  and  the 
faint,  seductive  fragrance  of  orris  in  his  nostrils. 

—259— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Brandon  said  to  himself  that  he  would  be  glad  when 
the  grind  let  up.  Just  now  he  was  so  infernally  busy, 
and  then  she  was  a  nice  little  thing,  he  didn't  want  to 
frighten  her.  He  was  no  brute,  no  beast;  he  really 
wanted  her  to  like  him.  By  lifting  a  hand  he  could  have 
any  one  of  many  women.  He  saw  it  in  their  eyes,  in 
their  efforts  to  attract  him,  to  arouse  in  him  some  personal 
interest.  All  of  this  he  knew  was  because  of  his  posi- 
tion, his  ability  to  help  them  along.  But  these  women 
repelled  him — he  must  have  romance  and  tenderness,  and 
he  wanted  to  be  the  pursuer. 

At  one  time  his  wife  had  been  the  only  woman  in  his 
heart,  but  she  had  been  a  hopeless  invalid  for  five  years, 
and  though  he  thought  of  her  with  great  sympathy  and 
gentleness,  she  had  entirely  drifted  out  of  his  active  life. 
He  surrounded  her  with  every  luxury,  every  care,  and  he 
never  forgot  her,  but  he  was  a  man,  full-blooded,  imagin- 
ative, romantic,  even  sentimental,  and  the  woman  element 
was  an  absolute  necessity  to  him. 

"What  a  quaint,  sweet  thing  she  is,"  he  said  to  himself, 
as  the  memory  of  her  eyes  and  the  fragrance  of  orris 
remained  with  him. 

"Good  loser"  though  he  was,  Brandon  had  no  inten- 
tion of  financing  an  unprofitable  venture,  and  the  second 
week  of  October  he  had  a  notice  placed  on  the  call  board 
saying  that  "The  Holdover"  would  close  its  New  York 
run  in  two  weeks  and  leave  at  once  for  Chicago  to  open 
the  day  before  Election  Day. 

This  was  good  news  to  the  company,  who  had  feared 
that  the  end  of  the  New  York  run  would  mean  the  store- 
house for  the  production.  But  at  least  it  was  to  be  given 
another  chance,  and  it  was  a  well-known  fact  that  Chi- 
cago, with  characteristic  independence,  often  set  the  seal 
of  its  approval  on  a  New  York  failure. 

Marie  Eggleston  burst  into  Evelyn's  dressing  room 
full  of  the  pleasant  news.  "It's  fine,  isn't  it?  I  was 
— 260 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

afraid  we  were  going  to  close.  I  think  Chicago  will  like 
this  piece,  don't  you?"  Then,  without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  Marie  rushed  on.  "Where  do  you  live  in  Chi- 
cago ?" 

"I  have  lived  many  places,  but  if  I  go  I  shall  probably 
stay  out  on  the  South  Side." 

"Why,  aren't  you  coming?"  Marie  asked. 

"I  suppose  so,  but  I'm  not  sure." 

"Oh,  tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  do  ?" 

"I  haven't  any  plans,  really."  Evelyn  was  annoyed 
with  herself  for  the  slip  she  had  made.  She  had  not 
intended  to  give  Marie  any  further  cause  for  suspicion. 
And  in  truth  she  had  heard  no  word  from  Brandon  about 
the  part  he  had  promised  her  in  the  new  play. 

She  knew,  as  every  one  around  the  theatre  did,  that  it 
had  not  gone  into  rehearsal,  but  whether  he  remembered 
his  promise  she  had  no  way  of  knowing. 

Of  only  one  thing  was  Evelyn  sure.  She  would  not 
remind  Brandon,  she  would  go  on  with  the  company,  fail- 
ure though  it  was,  and  apt  to  close  any  time,  throwing 
her  back  in  New  York  to  begin  the  old  struggle.  But 
that  must  be  if  it  must.  He  knew  that  she  was  here,  and 
if  he  wanted  to  remember  he  would — deep  in  her  she 
felt  that  he  had  not  forgotten. 

The  week  wore  on,  and  no  word  came  from  him.  He 
was  twice  on  the  stage  during  the  week,  and  though  he 
spoke  to  her,  there  was  no  mention  of  his  promise.  In 
the  face  of  this  Evelyn  made  her  preparations  to  go  on 
with  the  company  to  Chicago.  But  coming  into  the  thea- 
tre for  the  Saturday  matinee  she  found  a  note  asking 
her  to  come  up  to  the  office  after  the  performance. 

He  had  not  forgotten  her !  Then,  with  a  sudden  reac- 
tion, she  wished  that  he  had.  She  knew  what  it  meant — 
the  old,  terrible,  uncertain  life,  or  a  new  one — a  very 
new  and  strange  one. 

After  the  matinee  Evelyn  dressed,  very  glad  that  she 

— 261 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

had  worn  to  the  theatre  her  suit  just  home  from  the 
tailor,  and  a  new  soft  crepe  blouse  that  opened  low  in 
front,  and  broke  the  severeness  of  the  coat  with  its  deep, 
drooping  frills.  On  her  way  around  the  block  she  bought 
a  gardenia  from  a  street  vender. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  she  reached  the  office.  It  was 
deserted  save  for  the  telephone  operator. 

"Is  Mr.  Brandon  in?" 

"He  sees  people  in  the  morning,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"I  had  a  note  asking  me  to  come  in  at  this  time." 

"What's  the  name?" 

"Miss  Lane." 

The  girl  announced  her  over  the  telephone.  "Go  right 
in,"  she  said. 

Brandon  was  seated  at  his  desk  as  she  came  in.  He 
looked  up  and  smiled  at  her. 

"I'm  going  out  of  town  to-morrow ;  this  was  my  only 
chance  to  see  you." 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me." 

"Weren't  you  going  to  remind  me?" 

"No."    Then  she  added,  "I  thought  you  knew  best." 

"Well,  now  it's  up  to  you.  The  new  play,  'The  Heart 
of  Olga,'  goes  into  rehearsal  next  week.  Do  you  want 
to  stay,  and  take  your  chance  with  it,  or  go  on  with  this 
play?  There  is  a  part  in  it  that  ought  to  establish  you, 
and,  of  course,  double  your  present  salary." 

Evelyn's  eyes  were  lowered.  His  meaning  was  plain. 
She  had  a  sudden  wish  to  flee  from  him,  then  she  braced 
herself  and  looked  in  his  eyes. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  she  asked. 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  came  to  her,  took  one  hand 
in  his,  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet.  "I  want  you  to  stay — 
stay  a  long  time." 

"Then  I  will,"  she  whispered,  and  crept  into  the  circle 
of  his  arms  like  a  tired  child  that  had  found  a  resting 
place. 

— 262 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

He  took  her  chin,  and  raised  her  face  to  him.  "I'm 
mad  about  you!  You  know  that,  don't  you?"  he  asked 
hoarsely,  vehemently. 

"I'm  glad,"  she  answered  in  her  cool,  breathless  way. 

He  drew  her  to  him  in  a  swift,  stifling  embrace,  and 
between  the  kisses  that  rained  on  her  face  he  whispered, 
"I'll  be  good  to  you — always — always." 

That  night  after  the  performance  Evelyn  stepped  into 
a  waiting  taxi  and  was  driven  to  an  apartment  building 
that  overlooked  Gramercy  Park.  She  dismissed  the 
chauffeur,  let  herself  in  the  outer  door  with  a  latch  key, 
ascended  two  flights  of  stairs,  and  with  another  key 
opened  the  door  of  an  apartment. 

Evelyn  pressed  a  button  at  the  right  of  the  door,  and 
soft,  beautifying  lights  revealed  a  living  room,  charming 
and  simple  in  its  decorations  and  furnishings.  Beyond 
was  a  dining  room,  then  a  pantry,  a  small  kitchen,  and  a 
maid's  room.  Returning  to  the  living  room  she  looked 
about,  then  opened  the  door  at  her  right.  Here  the 
decorator  had  achieved  his  best  results.  It  was  a  lady's 
bower — beautiful  and  inviting. 

This  was  her  new  home — the  first  home  she  had  ever 
had ;  lovelier  than  she  had  ever  hoped  for,  but 

"He  knew  from  the  first  I  would  come,"  she  whispered 
to  the  surrounding  beauty.  "I've  been  coming  a  long 
time,  and  now  I'm  here — well " 

There  was  a  faint  buzz  over  the  front  door.  Evelyn 
paused  a  moment,  then  walked  resolutely  over  and  opened 
it. 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  your  nest,  my  pretty  one?  It 
was  built  for  you." 

"You  knew " 

"I  hoped,  and  I'm  always  willing  to  take  a  chance." 

"It's  wonderful."  And  again  she  slipped  into  the  circle 
of  his  arms. 

—263— 


The  Least  Resistance 

He  buried  his  face  in  the  soft,  fragrant  hair,  and, 
stirred  to  an  ecstasy  beyond  words,  he  lifted  her  in  his 
arms  and  bore  her  towards  the  door  to  the  right. 

Daylight  was  peeping  into  the  room  when  Evelyn 
woke.  She  stared  about,  wondering  at  her  strange  sur- 
roundings; then  the  sound  of  deep  breathing  came  to 
her,  and  she  remembered.  She  crept  out  of  bed,  out  of 
the  room  into  the  living  room. 

Here  it  was  stranger  still.  The  coat  and  hat  thrown 
on  a  chair,  the  Sunday  Telegraph  that  he  had  brought  in 
with  him  lying  on  the  table — it,  at  least,  was  a  familiar 
thing.  Evelyn  glanced  down  at  it,  and  there,  as  though 
Fate  had  drawn  a  black  line  around  it  so  that  she  could 
not  miss  it,  was  the  following: 

"The  Actors'  Fund  appealed  to  for  funds  to  bury 
Actor." 

and  under  this  headline: 

"The  Mayor  of  Bloomington  has  wired  the  Actors' 
Fund  for  money  to  bury  Robert  Waters,  who  died 
in  that  town  on  Friday  morning.  Waters  was  a 
member  of  the  Haviland  Repertoire  Company,  and 
was  left  behind  on  account  of  illness  when  the  Com- 
pany departed  last  Saturday." 

Evelyn   read   it  again,   and   again.     Bob   was   dead! 
Alone,  without  friends  and  money,  and  he  had  been  her 
husband.    Her  husband — now  she  was  free!     Freedom 
had  always  meant  Hubbard.     She  could  go  to  him,  be 
with  him  forever!     He  loved  her,  she  loved  him,  and 
then,  sweeping  over  her  in  a  wave  of  horror  was  the 
realisation.    She  couldn't  go  to  him ;  he  would  not  want 
her  now.     She  had  wiped  out  that  chance  for  all  time. 
"Evelyn,"  a  voice  called  out,  "where  are  you  ?" 
"Here,"  she  answered  hysterically,  "I'm  coming — I'm 
coming !" 
— 264 — 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

HEART  OF  OLGA"  went  into  rehearsals  the 
A  first  week  in  November,  and  as  it  was  Brandon's 
most  important  production,  he  gave  it  his  entire  time 
and  attention.  The  best  cast  possible  was  assembled, 
the  scenery  ordered  without  regard  to  expense,  and  the 
whole  put  into  the  hands  of  a  director  famous  for  his 
sensational  effects. 

The  play,  a  powerful  melodrama  adapted  from  the 
Russian,  had  enjoyed  great  success  abroad.  It  told  the 
story  of  Olga,  a  member  of  an  anarchistic  society,  who 
had  vowed  to  devote  her  life  to  the  cause  of  Freedom. 
The  one  weak  spot  in  Olga's  character  was  the  love  of  a 
young  sister.  The  climax  of  the  play  was  Olga's  dis- 
covery that  a  deep  love  existed  between  this  sister  and 
a  powerful  nobleman  who  had  been  picked  as  the  next 
victim  of  the  Society.  It  closed  with  the  tragic  death  of 
Olga  and  the  triumphant  love  of  the  sister  and  her  be- 
trothed. 

The  leading  role  was  entrusted  to  Anna  Vronsky,  a 
Russian  who  had  been  acting  in  America  for  the  past 
two  seasons.  She  spoke  careful,  exquisite  English,  and 
had  a  method  and  temperament  that  made  her  the  ideal 
woman  for  the  part. 

Evelyn  was  the  young  sister,  and,  though  it  was  not  a 
great  acting  role,  it  gave  her  a  chance  for  the  appeal  of 
her  beauty  and  personality. 

The  whole  cast  was  made  up  of  men  and  women  with 
metropolitan  reputations.  Evelyn  was  the  least  known 
member  of  the  organisation,  but  during  the  rehearsals  a 
press  campaign  was  set  on  foot  in  her  behalf  that  brought 
her  well  before  the  eyes  of  the  theatre-attending  public. 

—265— 


The  Least  Resistance 

The  rehearsals  swept  on  to  her.  The  work  at  the  thea- 
tre was  pleasant  and  any  sensitiveness  that  she  might 
have  felt,  knowing  to  what  her  position  was  due,  was 
wiped  out  by  the  attitude  of  her  co-workers.  They  were 
as  friendly  as  she  permitted  them  to  be.  She  knew  that 
Brandon  would  not  approve  of  her  close  association  with 
the  members  of  the  company,  and,  too,  she  could  not  have 
friendly  relations  at  the  theatre,  and  then  exclude  them 
from  her  home  life.  And  neither  she  nor  Brandon 
wanted  any  one  brought  into  their  intimate  life — he 
through  jealousy,  she  through  pride. 

Evelyn  saw  very  little  of  Brandon  during  these  first 
days,  for  his  time  was  consumed  with  the  work  of  launch- 
ing the  play.  She  depended  for  companionship  on  a 
maid  he  had  provided — a  silent,  valuable  woman  who 
relieved  her  of  every  material  care. 

She  was  not  lonely.  The  new  life  had  so  many 
interests  that  little  time  was  left  for  thought  or  reflec- 
tion. After  the  cheque  had  been  sent  which  covered 
Bob's  last  needs,  she  resolutely  wiped  out  the  past  and 
set  her  face  towards  the  future — the  brilliant,  rosy  fu- 
ture! 

The  rehearsals  consumed  most  of  the  day,  but  there 
was  an  hour's  intermission  for  luncheon,  and  as  Evelyn's 
apartment  was  so  far  down  town,  she  lunched  at  the 
hotels  near  the  theatre.  Her  favourite  grew  to  be  the 
great  stone  and  brick  pile  at  which  she  had  looked  long- 
ingly when  she  lived  in  a  bleak  hall  bedroom  on  Forty- 
fifth  Street.  Often  she  took  with  her  a  shy  girl  who 
was  playing  a  small  part  in  the  play,  and  in  whose  eyes 
Evelyn  saw  a  look  whose  meaning  she  knew  well. 

It  was  wonderful  to  live  in  luxury;  fine  to  be  able  to 
do  for  others  less  fortunate,  and  what  though  life  still 
was  incomplete— one  could  not  ask  for  everything,  and 
at  least  she  had  what  she  had  wished  for  through  the 
lean  years — freedom  from  financial  worry. 
—266— 


The  Least  Resistance 

After  the  day's  work  was  done,  she  shopped  or  drove, 
and  practised  the  art  of  fine  living  that  she  had  learned 
from  Hale  Johnston.  Then  there  was  dinner,  more  often 
at  home  since  it  was  not  advisable  for  her  to  be  seen 
with  Brandon  in  public;  besides,  he  was  at  that  stage 
of  his  infatuation  when  he  wanted  her  all  to  himself. 

Evelyn  soon  learned  that  beneath  the  calmness  and 
suavity  of  Brandon's  exterior  a  ferocious  jealousy  lurked, 
ready  to  spring  to  the  surface  on  the  least  provocation. 
His  passion  was  consuming,  insatiate,  and  at  times  ab- 
ject in  its  devotion.  He  demanded  everything,  and  was 
ready  in  return  to  give  without  stint. 

And  whatever  deep  secret  repulsion  Evelyn  may  have 
felt  and  in  spite  of  a  great  loss,  she  was  not  unhappy. 
The  days  and  evenings  with  the  resources  of  the  great 
city  to  draw  upon  passed  swiftly,  and  all  too  soon  she  was 
home  and  waiting. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  was  able  to  gratify  the  old 
wish  for  music,  more  especially  for  opera,  which  dated 
from  the  night  she  dined  at  the  little  French  restaurant, 
and  heard  the  enthusiastic  young  Henri  out  on  his  hobby. 
He  had  advised  her  to  see  Carmen  first,  and  she  remem- 
bered passing  the  great,  sombre  Opera  House  on  her 
way  home,  and  pausing  to  wonder  if  ever  she,  clad  in 
soft  silk,  and  breathing  forth  a  rare  fragrance,  would 
step  from  her  car  and  enter  the  doors  of  the  Temple  of 
Music.  She  had  never  tried  to  go  during  the  old,  hard 
days,  not  even  when  she  and  Bratton  were  friends.  Her 
clothes  were  never  fit,  and  she  had  always  wanted  to  keep 
the  picture  complete — never  to  go  in  until  time  and  cir- 
cumstance fulfilled  her  early  imaginings. 

Now  they  were  fulfilled  in  a  way  that  she  never 
dreamed,  and  she  spent  her  happiest  hours  here.  She 
forgot  everything,  lived  in  a  different  world,  communed 
with  different  spirits.  It  answered  more  completely  than 
anything  ever  had  the  craving  of  her  beauty-seeking  soul. 

— 267 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

But  opera  and  all  other  interests  were  wiped  out  as 
the  opening  of  the  play  drew  near.  There  were  long, 
exhausting  rehearsals.  Neither  Anna  Vronsky  nor  the 
Producer  knew  what  it  was  to  tire,  and  though  the  less 
interested  members  of  the  company  complained,  the 
hours  were  not  shortened. 

Then  a  week  before  the  opening  date  the  leading  man 
was  taken  ill,  and  Brandon  was  forced  to  look  for  a 
substitute.  To  find  a  man  with  a  reputation  who  fitted 
the  part  was  no  easy  matter,  and  two  precious  days  were 
lost.  The  next  morning,  as  Evelyn  walked  on  the  stage, 
she  was  surprised  to  come  face  to  face  with  Gordon 
Wayne. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  surprise!"  As  he  shook 
hands  with  her  there  was  frank  admiration  in  his  eyes. 
Never  had  he  seen  a  little  girl  bloom  out  so — what  was 
it? 

"It  is  good  to  see  you,  and  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  to 
help  us  out." 

"I  wonder  if  I  can.  It's  an  awful  part ;  sixty  sides  to 
get  up  in  a  week,  or  rather  five  days,"  he  said. 

"I  know,  but  it  suits  you,  and  you'll  enjoy  working 
with  Madame — she  won't  try  to  teach  you  how  to  act  a 
la  Hartwell." 

"Will  you  ever  forget  her  magnificence?  Poor  Win- 
nie ;  these  are  sad  days  for  her — her  new  play  is  a  flivver." 

"Yes,  I  saw  it.    She  looked  well " 

"But  she  can't  act,"  Gordon  said  with  a  laugh.  "I'm 
glad  to  see  you  coming  along  so  well.  I  saw  you  in  'The 
Holdover'  and  you  were  very  charming." 

"I  had  only  a  wee  part.  The  one  I  have  now  is  the 
best  I've  ever  had,  and  I'm  a  bit  afraid  of  it." 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid.    Just  dash  into  it." 

"How  is  your  brother?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"He  is  fine.    We  saw  you  together  in  'The  Holdover.' " 

"Yes?"  Evelyn  asked. 
—268— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Some  day  I'll  tell  you  what  he  said  about  you.  I'm 
afraid  you  couldn't  stand  it  so  early  in  the  morning." 

"How  long  has  he  been  home — from  abroad  I  mean  ?" 

"Since  August.  He  is  going  to  meet  me  at  the  Knick- 
erbocker for  lunch.  Won't  you  come  too  ?  It  would  be 
such  a  jolly  surprise  for  him." 

"I  should  love  to,"  she  said  impulsively,  and  then  she 
caught  Brandon's  eye.  He  had  taken  his  usual  seat  in 
the  orchestra  to  witness  the  rehearsal.  She  knew  that 
his  gaze  had  been  upon  her  during  the  whole  of  this  con- 
versation, and  there  was  a  darkening  in  the  depths  of  his 
inscrutable  eyes. 

"I  should  love  to  go,"  Evelyn  repeated,  "but  I  have 
another  engagement.  Remember  me  to  him;  I  always 
think  of  you  both  with  so  much  pleasure  and  gratitude." 

She  passed  on,  leaving  him  to  study  the  long  part  of 
Ivan.  Meeting  him  had  stirred  to  life  old  memories. 
The  flight  from  Bratton — Hubbard's  letter  had  not  saved 
her,  it  had  only  postponed  the  hour  of  yielding. 

Gordon  Wayne  had  caught  the  look  between  Brandon 
and  Evelyn,  and  that,  with  the  part  she  was  playing,  and 
the  attitude  of  the  company  towards  her,  made  the  situa- 
tion clear  to  him. 

"Rotten  business,"  he  said  to  Bratton  when  they  met 
for  lunch.  "Girls  like  that  haven't  a  chance ;  that  is,  but 
one  chance.  With  no  will,  no  especial  talent,  nothing  but 
a  sex  appeal  that  pulls  them  up,  and  then — ye  gods,  what 
a  falling  off!" 

Bratton  never  came  about  the  theatre,  but  he  was  on 
for  the  opening  in  Springfield,  and  he  and  Evelyn  met. 
There  was  a  brave  attempt  to  renew  the  old  friendly 
relation,  but  Brandon's  shadow  fell  long  between  them. 

Then  came  the  opening  in  New  York,  and  the  play 
was  the  enormous  success  Brandon  had  expected. 
Once  again  he  had  struck  the  popular  favour.  The  critics 

— 269 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

were  lavish  in  their  praise  of  the  production  and  of 
Madame  Vronsky's  acting. 

"An  exotic  and  dramatic  personality  expressing  itself 
through  a  rare  and  finished  technique,"  one  said.  An- 
other that  she  was  "a  supreme  artist ;  no  American  actress 
could  have  touched  the  role." 

And  next  in  the  favour  of  the  reviewers  was  "an  al- 
most unknown  young  woman  of  ethereal  beauty  who 
played  with  a  naturalness  and  simplicity  all  too  rare  in 
young  actresses.  She  was  the  ideal  younger  sister."  An- 
other paper  said,  "Paler,  simpler  than  the  great  Russian 
actress,  but  no  less  effective  was  Miss  Evelyn  Lane. 
Manager  Brandon  has  shown  his  usual  astuteness  in 
casting  the  play." 

Evelyn  read  the  notices,  propped  up  in  bed.  The 
breakfast  tray  stood  by  untouched.  Martin  had  just 
brought  it  in  with  the  morning  papers.  She  read  the  no- 
tices feverishly,  passing  from  one  to  the  other  and  back 
again.  She  looked  about  her  room — the  beautiful  room, 
a  bower  of  flowers  now — the  offerings  of  last  night.  So 
many  people  had  remembered  her;  Brandon,  of  course, 
Gordon  Wayne,  and  Bratton,  too.  A  wonderful  box  of 
roses  had  come  with  the  card  of  Hale  Johnston,  and 
Mary  Leighton  had  sent  violets. 

Dear  Mary — she  must  be  somewhere  in  the  city,  wait- 
ing so  bravely  and  so  patiently  for  her  chance.  Would 
it  ever  come?  Evelyn  doubted  it.  In  her  heart  she  did 
not  believe  that  chances  ever  came  save  as  hers  had.  She 
must  find  Mary  and  do  what  she  could. 

A  good  part  in  a  Broadway  success — this  is  the  dream 
and  hope  of  every  member  of  the  profession.  This  the 
stepping  stone  to  greatness  and  prosperity ;  this  the  lure 
that  leads  so  many  on  through  the  long,  lean  years,  keeps 
hope  burning  through  months  of  idleness  and  weeks  of 
dreary  rehearsals.  This  is  the  end — the  thing  that  shall 
repay,  and  now  it  had  come  to  Evelyn. 
— 270 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

She  was  young,  successful,  loved.  She  was  inter- 
viewed, photographed,  and  advertised.  Her  picture  ap- 
peared in  the  Sunday  Supplements,  her  eyes  questioned 
from  magazine  covers,  and  a  fashionable  firm  copied  her 
third  act  gown,  putting  it  on  the  market  as  "The  Evelyn 
Dancing  Frock." 

The  days,  the  weeks,  the  months  flew  by  with  no  sub- 
sidence of  the  tides  of  happiness  and  excitement. 

Brandon  was  more  devoted  than  ever;  more  deter- 
mined to  make  her  in  time  a  full-fledged  star ;  more  to- 
tally oblivious  to  all  other  women  than  he  had  been  in 
the  beginning.  He  was  lavish  in  his  treatment  of  her; 
he  encouraged  her  in  every  extravagance.  All  her  native 
taste  for  dress  flowered;  all  her  gravitation  towards 
luxury  hurled  her  quiveringly  into  the  excesses  of  the 
new  life.  She  shed  the  old,  quiet,  shrinking  nature.  She 
was  gay  and  confident.  The  chrysalis  had  burst  and  the 
butterfly  was  on  the  wing. 

"The  Heart  of  Olga"  grew  in  popularity  as  the  season 
went  on,  and  other  cities  were  clamouring  to  see  the 
play  on  which  Broadway  had  set  its  unequivocal  ap- 
proval. Brandon  decided  to  send  a  Number  Two  Com- 
pany to  Chicago  for  the  summer. 

As  the  first  rumour  of  the  possibility  of  a  new  com- 
pany reached  Broadway,  Brandon's  office  was  besieged  by 
actors  and  actresses  eager  for  parts.  The  prospect  of 
an  all-summer  run  in  Chicago  made  them  fierce  and  in- 
sistent in  their  importunings.  In  his  dealings  with  them, 
Brandon  was  kind  and  considerate.  He  saw  as  many  of 
the  applicants  as  was  possible,  and  answered  letters.  But 
the  play  was  practically  cast  since  he  was  desirous  of  fill- 
ing it  with  types  that  would  reproduce  as  far  as  possible 
the  New  York  company. 

It  was  an  easy  matter  to  find  a  substitute  for  every  one 
but  Anna  Vronsky.  Her  peculiar  appearance,  her  un- 

— 271 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

usual  method  and  emotional  power  made  her  a  person- 
ality so  unique  that  it  was  difficult  to  find  an  actress  who 
even  suggested  her. 

"The  play  doesn't  depend  on  her  at  all,"  Brandon  said 
to  Evelyn  one  evening  over  the  dinner  table.  "It  would 
have  gone  over  without  her,  but  I  can't  see  any  one  in  the 
part  but  a  woman  of  her  type." 

"That  old  type  business,"  Evelyn  answered. 

"It  is  a  very  important  matter." 

"Oh,  I  know,  but  in  the  old  days  it  broke  my  heart." 

"You  poor  little  thing;  the  idea  of  you "  And 

then,  because  he  was  under  the  spell  of  her  charm,  he 
forgot  the  casting  of  the  play,  and  the  talk  was  of  other 
things. 

But  when  the  dinner  was  over  and  he  was  standing 
before  the  open  fire  in  the  living  room  Evelyn  brought 
up  the  matter  again. 

"C.  B.,"  she  began  in  her  most  beguiling  voice,  "don't 
you  want  me  to  tell  you  about  a  girl  who  could  play 
Olga  just  as  well  as  Madame?  She  has  just  as  much 
power  and  poise,  and  she  has  worked  so  hard,  and  is 
so  deserving " 

"And  she  hasn't  a  shred  of  reputation." 

"Oh,  well,  you  could  manage  that.  You  know,"  she 
said  shrewdly,  "an  unknown  woman  would  be  better 
than  one  with  some  reputation." 

"That  isn't  a  bad  idea.  I  didn't  know  you  were  such 
a  keen  little  business  woman." 

"Mary — this  girl,  would  be  wonderful  in  the  part. 
And  you  could  make  her  well  known  in  a  short  time." 
She  slipped  her  arms  over  his  shoulders  and  looked  up 
in  his  face.  "You  said  yourself  it  was  the  play,  not  the 
woman.  But  Mary  Leighton  looks  it,  and  she  is  wonder- 
ful. Let  her  rehearse  it  for  you.  Won't  you,  please — 
forme?" 

"What  kind  of  an  actress  are  you  ?  Plugging  another 
— 272 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

woman's  game  instead  of  your  own.  Most  of  them  would 
have  asked  for  the  part  for  herself." 

It  was  Evelyn's  chance  and  she  took  advantage  of  it. 
She  pulled  his  face  down  to  hers  and  kissed  him.  "You 
big,  old  dear,  I  don't  want  it — it  would  take  me  away 
from  you." 

There  was  a  leap  in  his  eyes,  and  his  arms  tightened 
about  her. 

"I  don't  want  to  meddle,  C.  B.,  but  I  do  so  want  her 
to  have  her  chance — she  was  so  good  to  me." 

And  so  Mary  Leighton's  chance  came  to  her.  The 
theatrical  world  wondered  why  an  unknown  woman  was 
given  precedence  over  so  many  distinguished  actresses 
who  were  idle  and  who  would  have  been  glad  of  the 
engagement. 

But  after  Brandon  had  seen  Mary  rehearse  he  realised 
that  she  fitted  the  part  as  few  better  known  women  would 
have  done.  His  press  agent  was  put  to  work  imme- 
diately, and  a  waiting  world  was  told  that  a  new  star 
had  arisen.  That,  after  vain  efforts  to  find  a  suitable 
Olga,  this  unknown  girl  had  come  forward  and  so  im- 
pressed Manager  Brandon  that  he  intrusted  her  with  this 
all-important  role. 

Evelyn  attended  the  dress  rehearsal,  which  was  held 
just  before  the  company  left  for  Chicago.  She  sat  in  the 
dim  theatre  filled  with  a  tender,  motherly  pride  that  Mary 
was  rising  so  wonderfully  to  her  opportunity. 

She  heard  the  clear,  vibrant  voice,  the  clean-cut  dic- 
tion; saw  the  ease  and  grace  of  her  movements,  and 
watched  the  definite  mental  conception  body  itself  forth 
through  an  elastic  technique.  Apparently  Mary  was  fol- 
lowing the  interpretation  of  the  Russian  actress,  but 
where  the  other  had  leaped  into  the  big  scene  with  tiger- 
ish ferocity  that  stirred  her  audience  almost  to  cheers, 
Mary  rose  to  a  spiritual  height,  tense,  restrained,  suggest- 
ing so  much  more  felt  than  expressed,  and  then  the  last 


The  Least  Resistance 

tragic  note  that  rose  far  above  the  sensationalism  of  the 
Russian  into  the  ratified  atmosphere  of  great  acting. 

The  years  of  hard  work  in  the  wild  melodramas  had 
developed  a  facility  and  a  technique,  and  the  stern  dis- 
cipline of  her  life  had  given  her  the  power  to  use  this 
training  to  good  ends  rather  than  to  be  mastered  by  it, 
and  when  her  great  chance  came,  she  was  ready  for  it. 

The  old  ironic  aspect  of  Fate  that  Evelyn  had  sensed  so 
often  without  being  able  to  define  it  came  to  her  again 
and  again  as  she  watched  the  rehearsal.  She  almost 
wished  that  Mary  had  not  been  given  this  chance,  that 
she  had  waited  and  wrung  it  from  life  through  her 
own  high  value.  But  would  the  years  of  patient  labour 
have  achieved  so  golden  an  opportunity  as  this  which  had 
come  through  frail  Evelyn's  influence? 

But  these  questions  soon  passed  from  Evelyn's  mind, 
and  her  ability  to  have  given  Mary  her  great  chance 
justified  to  her  completely  her  relation  with  Brandon. 
When  she  had  worked,  suffered,  sacrificed,  and  held  true 
to  the  code,  she  had  never  been  able  to  help  any  one,  and 
now,  with  a  few  words,  she  had  given  Mary  the  only 
thing  she  needed — an  opportunity. 

At  the  fall  of  the  last  curtain  Evelyn  rushed  back  to 
the  dressing  room,  and  the  two  girls  were  locked  in  a 
swift,  understanding  embrace. 

"Oh,  Mary,  you  are  wonderful — wonderful.  I  always 
knew  it !" 

"Think  of  playing  a  part  like  this — think  of  this  chance. 
I  had  almost  begun  to  believe  it  wouldn't  come." 

Brandon  was  at  the  door  holding  out  his  hands.  "Well, 
young  lady,  you've  landed  on  both  feet.  You  are  a  great 
actress,  Miss  Leighton."  And  he  shook  her  hands 
heartily. 

"Mr.  Brandon,  I  can  never  thank  you  for  this  chance. 
There  aren't  any  words  to  tell  you  what  it  means  to  me." 

"Well,"  he  answered  lightly,  "when  you  get  ready  to 
—274— 


The  Least  Resistance 

pay  your  commission  it  goes  to  this  child — she  picked 
you  for  the  part."  He  looked  at  Evelyn,  and  his  secret 
was  easy  to  read. 

"Oh!"  Mary  said,  and  the  new  light  died  out  of  her 
eyes  as  she  realized  the  situation. 

Something  else  claimed  Brandon's  attention,  and  he 
hurried  away.  The  two  women  were  left  facing  each 
other. 

"I  tried,  Mary,  I  tried  everything  else.  He  is  good,  and 
I  am  fond  of  him.  Don't  think " 

"I  don't  think  anything  except  that  you  are  the  sweet- 
est, finest But,  oh,  the  pity  of  a  girl  like  you " 

"It's  the  only  way,  Mary,  at  least  for  a  girl  like  me.  I 
haven't  your  talent,  nor  your  health,  nor  your  will.  It 
was  the  only  way " 

"Oh  I  wonder "  Three  months  ago  Mary  would 

have  cried  out  indignantly:  "It  is  not  the  only  way!" 
Now  the  best  answer  she  could  make  was,  "I  won- 
der  "  And  the  last  drop  in  her  cup  of  triumph  was 

bitter. 

The  second  company  went  to  Chicago  for  an  all-sum- 
mer run.  There  it  reproduced  the  New  York  success, 
and  Mary  was  hailed  as  the  American  Bernhardt.  There 
was  not  a  young  actress  in  America  who  had  her  tech- 
nical skill  or  her  emotional  power.  Brandon  was  called 
the  theatrical  Columbus — the  Discoverer  of  American 
Talent. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,  C.  B.?"  Evelyn  said  to  him  one 
evening  when  he  had  brought  the  Chicago  papers  for 
her  to  see. 

"Yes,  and  just  think  what  a  good  little  judge  you  were 
of  acting."  His  large,  firm  hand  stroked  the  soft  hair. 
"I  think  you  should  put  in  a  claim  for  a  large  reward." 

"What  could  I  ask  for?  I  have  everything."  She 
laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  She  tried  to  fancy  that 
she  loved  him  ardently,  deeply.  He  was  strong,  kind 

—275— 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  generous.  It  was  her  duty  to  care  for  him,  but  she 
couldn't  learn  to  care.  In  truth,  he  bored  her  a  bit  with 
the  unvarying  routine  of  his  lovemaking. 

The  approbation  given  a  good  child,  the  conventional 
petting,  the  birth  of  desire,  and  the  ferocity  of  aroused 
passion — the  routine  never  varied!  He  had  only  one 
mood  that  brought  with  it  change  and  subtlety.  And  as 
Evelyn  gave  him  slight  cause  for  jealousy  that  mood  was 
rare.  At  times  she  was  tempted  to  provoke  it.  To  see 
him  sullen,  sombre,  violent,  and  through  it  all  suffering, 
gave  her  a  queer,  ecstatic  sensation. 

"You  do  everything  for  me,  C.  B.,"  she  repeated,  "so 
I  can't  think  of  a  reward  to  ask." 

"Then  I'll  think  of  it  for  you.  You  are  to  retire  from 
the  cast,  and  sail  for  France  the  first  of  next  month.  I'll 
meet  you  over  there  a  week  later." 

"You  couldn't  have  thought  of  anything  more  per- 
fect!" 

Evelyn  sailed  the  first  week  in  July,  accompanied  by 
the  silent,  valuable  Martin.  It  was  her  first  trip  abroad, 
and  she  was  thrilled  with  the  excitement  of  it. 

The  sojourn  in  the  French  capital  was  a  time  of 
change  and  development  with  Evelyn.  Daily  hundreds 
of  new  impressions  flowed  in,  and  registered  on  her  re- 
ceptive mind.  Preeminently  adaptable,  she  rapidly  as- 
similated the  spirit  and  atmosphere  of  her  new  sur- 
roundings. She  went  diligently  to  the  theatres  to  ob- 
serve the  acting  and  deportment  of  the  French  actors. 
She  "did"  the  art  galleries  and  palaces,  and  dined  with 
Brandon  in  all  of  the  interesting  and  famous  restaurants. 

Evelyn  met  a  number  of  distinguished  people,  chiefly 
of  her  own  profession.  All  of  them  treated  her  with  sub- 
tle respect,  knowing  her  hold  on  the  great  Brandon. 
Some  of  the  men  went  farther,  and  evinced  an  open 
admiration,  and  though  this  brought  on  scenes  with 
— 276— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Brandon,  it  gave  her  a  surer  feeling  of  her  power  and 
importance. 

And  then  the  dressmakers!  Those  "builders  of 
gowns,"  how  they  interested  and  delighted  her !  She  lin- 
gered with  them,  stood  for  hours  trying  colour  and  line 
effects.  Her  own  excellent  taste  kept  her  from  outre 
and  unbecoming  clothes,  and  she  commanded  respect 
with  her  talent  for  design  and  shade. 

Her  gowns  accentuated  every  beauty  and  grace  that 
she  possessed — a  languid,  restful  grace;  a  beauty  frail 
and  fluctuating  under  the  strain  of  her  present  life. 

There  were  days  when  she  was  fresh  and  radiant, 
others  when  a  hat  that  shaded  well  her  face  was  called 
into  duty  to  hide  the  shadows  about  the  eyes,  and  the 
pallor  that  came  from  depleted  vitality. 

Evelyn  began  to  experiment  with  stimulants,  hoping  to 
find  something  that  would  carry  her  through.  She  re- 
sorted often  to  the  dash  of  absinthe  in  the  cocktail  which 
had  been  introduced  to  her  by  Hale.  Often  there  was  an 
extra  cocktail  before  she  met  Brandon  for  dinner,  for 
after  a  strenuous  day  she  was  scarcely  a  bright  dinner 
companion  unless  reinforced  by  artificial  stimulation. 
From  the  after-theatre  visit  to  some  gay  night  restaurant 
she  frequently  returned  to  her  hotel  too  weary  for  words, 
collapsing  on  the  bed,  to  be  undressed  and  tucked  in  by 
the  waiting  Martin. 

"This  can't  go  on,"  she  said  to  herself  one  morning 
when  the  night  before  had  left  unmistakable  ravages  on 
her  face.  "Soon  I'll  be  an  old  hag.  Martin,"  she  said 
to  the  maid  who  entered  with  her  breakfast,  "I  look  aw- 
ful this  morning — don't  I  ?" 

"Can't  you  stay  in  bed  to-day  ?  You  need  a  rest,  Miss 
Lane.  You  haven't  got  a  strong  body,  and  you  have 
to  be  careful." 

"You  know,"  she  said,  studying  her  face  in  the  mir- 

—277— 


The  Least  Resistance 

ror,  "I  look  like  my  Mother — it's  the  first  time  I  ever 
noticed  it." 

"She  died  when  you  were  a  little  girl,  didn't  she?" 
Martin  said,  coming  up  behind  her  and  stroking  the 
long,  soft  hair  that  hung  in  a  braid  to  her  knees. 

"Yes — a  long  time  ago — I  wasn't  quite  fifteen." 

"What  was  the  matter  with  her?"  Martin  asked  sym- 
pathetically. 

"Her  lungs — they  called  it  'galloping  consumption/  " 
There  was  a  silence  in  the  room,  a  tragic,  ominous 
silence.  Martin's  hand  paused  in  its  stroking,  and  Eve- 
lyn unconsciously  held  her  breath.  She  wheeled  and 
faced  the  maid.  "You  don't  think  there  is  anything  the 
matter  with  my  lungs,  do  you,  Martin?" 

"No,"  the  other  answered.  "No,  Miss  Lane,"  she  re- 
peated positively;  "they  are  strong,  I  am  sure,  but  you 
must  be  careful — not  about  your  lungs,  but  just  because 
you  aren't  very  hearty.  There,  there,  you  mustn't  get 
such  thoughts  in  your  head." 

But  the  thought  was  in  Evelyn's  mind,  and  it  bore 
fruit,  for  there  was  less  going  about,  simpler  food,  more 
sleep,  and  an  effort  to  do  away  with  the  use  of  stimulants. 
She  conserved  her  strength  for  the  time  she  must  spend 
with  Brandon,  for  a  deep  instinct  made  her  hide  from 
him  her  lack  of  energy  and  vitality. 

Brandon  sailed  for  New  York  two  weeks  before  Eve- 
lyn's departure,  in  order  to  get  his  companies  ready 
for  their  fall  openings.  She  was  to  reach  home  just  in 
time  for  the  new  play  in  which  she  was  to  play  the 
lead  opposite  a  strong  male  star. 

All  of  the  extensive  wardrobe  that  was  required  was 
being  made  in  Paris  under  her  watchful  eyes.  She  was 
having  clothes  that  would  suit  her,  rather  than  sensa- 
tional things  that  would  advertise  the  French  modiste 
at  the  expense  of  caricaturing  herself. 

The  two  weeks  that  she  was  alone  were  weeks  of  rest. 
—278— 


The  Least  Resistance 

She  saw  no  one  save  Martin  and  the  dressmakers,  and 
though  at  times  spells  of  restlessness  came  over  her, 
she  conquered  them,  and  followed  the  programme  that 
would  send  her  home  in  good  condition  for  the  season 
before  her. 

So  successful  was  this  rest  cure  that  when  Brandon 
met  her  in  New  York  he  declared  that  she  "bowled  him 
over  with  her  beauty";  and  the  ship  reporters  spoke 
of  the  "beautiful  Miss  Lane"  who  had  just  returned  from 
Paris  for  an  important  part  in  a  new  production. 

She  was  interviewed  about  Paris  styles  and  how  they 
affected  the  American  actress.  She  was  photographed 
in  her  fine  feathers;  and  soon  after  her  face  decorated 
the  covers  of  all  the  theatrical  magazines. 

In  the  short  space  of  a  year,  so  active  had  been  the 
press  campaign  set  on  foot  by  Brandon,  Evelyn  was  one 
of  the  best-known  actresses  in  America. 

Shortly  after  her  return  her  father  and  step-mother 
arrived  in  New  York.  She  entertained  them  with  a 
curious  feeling  that  they  were  entire  strangers,  and 
loaded  them  with  presents  for  the  two  young  children 
at  home. 

The  new  play  went  into  rehearsals,  opened  and  failed, 
New  York  not  following  London  in  its  appreciation 
of  the  drama.  Evelyn  was  idle  for  a  month,  then  opened 
in  another  play,  which,  while  not  catching  on  to  Broad- 
way favour,  was  thought  to  have  a  chance  on  the  road. 
When  it  went  on  tour  another  girl  was  playing  Eve- 
lyn's part.  She  remained  in  New  York,  to  open  on 
New  Year's  Day  in  a  big  melodrama. 

It  was  Brandon's  policy  to  keep  her  in  New  York 
so  that  the  general  public  might  get  well  acquainted 
with  her.  Then  her  first  starring  venture  would  ap- 
pear as  a  legitimate  step  rather  than  a  forcing  prompted 
by  personal  regard. 

Through  the  playing  of  many  parts  Evelyn  had  im- 

—279- 


The  Least  Resistance 

proved  greatly  in  acting.  In  certain  roles  she  was  most 
effective.  There  was  an  unusual  quality  in  her  per- 
sonality, a  wistfulness  and  pathos  that  took  the  place 
of  power  and  distinction  which  she  absolutely  lacked. 
Brandon  wisely  gave  her  such  roles  as  fitted  her  tem- 
perament, and  the  critics  were  kindly  disposed  towards 
her,  so  that  the  general  impression  obtained  that  she 
was  a  young  actress  of  decided  talent  and  possibilities. 

But  through  this  year  of  success  and  gaiety  two  per- 
sons watched  her  with  anxiety  and  foreboding — the  de- 
voted Martin,  and  Mary,  who  was  playing  Olga  in  the 
New  York  company  which  was  holding  its  own  in  spite 
of  the  withdrawal  of  the  temperamental  Russian. 

The  two  girls  were  together  a  great  deal;  and  Mary 
tried  to  make  Evelyn  see  the  necessity  for  the  conserva- 
tion of  her  forces,  but  the  poison  of  the  new  life  was 
in  Evelyn's  veins.  She  must  go,  see,  do — must  make  up 
for  the  long,  sordid,  cramped  years.  Must  fill  her  life 
with  beauty  and  excitement,  a  hidden,  suppressed  excite- 
ment that  scarcely  showed  itself  above  the  surface  of 
consciousness. 

There  were  times  when  she  knew  that  she  ought  to 
save  money;  ought  to  lay  aside  for  that  rainy  day  that 
she  felt  instinctively  was  ahead.  She  made  several 
futile  efforts  to  save,  but  the  habit  of  spending  was 
strong  upon  her ;  and  luxury-soaked  as  she  was,  thoughts 
of  thrift  grew  daily  more  obnoxious.  She  fell  back  on 
the  slogan  learned  from  Hale  Johnston:  "I've  got  to 
take  my  chance." 

Brandon's  devotion  justified  this  attitude,  for  with 
possession  had  come  no  abatement  of  interest,  but  rather 
an  increase.  What  had  been  a  sudden  infatuation  en- 
gendered by  her  beauty,  and  sex  appeal  ripened  into 
a  jealous,  engrossing  passion  as  her  gentleness,  her 
sweetness,  and  inherent  weakness  gripped  his  virility. 
There  was  about  her  a  reservation,  a  mystery,  an  aloof- 
—280— 


The  Least  Resistance 

ness  even  when  she  was  nearest  that  puzzled,  and  at 
times  piqued,  him.  She  demanded  nothing,  and  it 
aroused  his  impulse  to  give.  She  responded  to  his  lav- 
ishness  with  a  gentle  blooming  which  made  her  a  pos- 
session that  satisfied  not  only  desire,  but  pride.  Her 
fragile,  exquisite  beauty;  her  very  languor,  and  lack 
of  vitality  moved  him  as  no  radiant,  vivid  woman  ever 
had.  And  Evelyn,  sensing  this,  let  go  her  last  hold  on 
actuality  and  drifted  non-resistingly  towards  the  future. 

One  afternoon  in  the  early  spring  she  and  Mary  sat 
by  a  tea  table  in  Mary's  apartment  which  commanded 
a  sweep  of  the  Park. 

It  was  a  pleasant,  bright  room  with  its  soft  tan  walls ; 
the  wicker  furniture  upholstered  in  yellow  flowered 
chintz.  On  the  tea  table  a  tall  vase  held  bright  yellow 
jonquils ;  a  piano  stood  open  in  the  corner,  and  there 
were  Japanese  prints  on  the  walls;  and  everywhere 
books. 

Evelyn  enjoyed  the  quiet  afternoons  here  with  Mary. 
To-day  they  had  been  for  a  long  ride  in  an  open  car 
and  the  keen  air  had  sent  them  home  ready  for  tea. 

They  had  been  discussing  a  Galsworthy  play  which 
had  opened  the  night  before.  At  least  Mary  had  been 
talking  of  it;  Evelyn  listened,  her  attention  wandering 
until  Mary  was  aware  that  she  no  longer  heard.  There 
was  a  long  silence  in  which  the  older  woman  sur- 
veyed anxiously  the  face  of  Evelyn,  who  was  gazing 
out  of  the  window  with  a  pensive,  abstracted  expression. 

"Evelyn,"  Mary  said  at  last,  "are  you  taking  good  care 
of  yourself?" 

"Yes— at  least  I  think  so.    Why,  do  I  look  a  fright?" 

"No,  you  are  lovely  to  look  at,  but  you  do  seem  frail 
this  year,  and  a  little  apathetic." 

"Apathetic?"  Evelyn  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"Why,  I'm  going  every  minute." 

—281— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"But  you  don't  want  to  go  every  minute.  If  you 
didn't  urge  yourself  or " 

"Have  a  high  ball,"  Evelyn  finished  in  an  even  voice. 

"Yes,  just  that — you  wouldn't  move  from  that  chair 
for  hours." 

"Well,  what  can  I  do?"  Evelyn  asked,  turning  on 
her.  "Who's  going  to  wait  for  me  while  I  rest  up?  I 
do  try,"  she  went  on,  "but  I  can't,  and  I'm  just  as  well 
as  I  ever  was  in  my  life,  only  now  I  have  time  to  think 
about  it." 

"And  time  and  means  to  help  yourself,"  Mary  in- 
sisted. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to  help  myself.  Maybe 
it's  just  as  well  to  hurry  on  to  the  end.  But  I  am 
tired,"  she  said  wearily.  "Oh,  Mary,  it  is  so  different 
from  what  people  imagine  it  is!"  And  the  best  adver- 
tised, most  photographed  young  actress  in  America 
dropped  her  head  in  her  hands  and  cried  with  weary 
abandonment. 


— 283— 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-FOUR 

BUT  this  was  a  passing  mood.  Evelyn  was  too  inher- 
ently normal  for  prolonged  depression,  besides  the 
warm  wind  of  adulation  blew  so  continually  on  her  that 
the  ego  could  not  long  hover  about  the  zero  point.  It 
conquered  physical  debility,  and  leaped  up,  sustained  by 
excitement  and  success. 

It  had  been  a  prosperous  year  for  Brandon,  and  Evelyn 
shared  his  prosperity.  His  plan  for  her  was  a  summer  of 
rest,  and  study  in  Europe  to  be  followed  by  a  starring 
venture  in  the  fall. 

Ten  years  ago  Evelyn  would  not  have  been  considered 
of  stellar  calibre,  but  public  taste  had  changed.  The 
Junoesque  blonde  leading  woman  who  ravished  the  eyes 
during  the  first  two  acts,  wept  over  her  past  in  the  third, 
went  sadly  out  of  the  lives  of  her  virtuous  friends  in  the 
fourth,  had  passed  from  popular  favour.  Another  type 
of  actress  was  on  the  crest  of  the  wave.  The  heroic 
blonde  had  known  how  to  act,  was  probably  the  product 
of  long,  arduous  training,  and  knew  all  the  tricks  of  her 
trade.  She  could  laugh  musically,  could  languish,  could 
weep,  aye  weeping  was  her  forte,  and  no  audience  ever 
left  the  theatre  dry-eyed. 

But  the  new  type  depended  on  none  of  these  things 
for  success.  She  had  merely  to  be,  and  "to  be"  meant  to 
possess  youth,  slouching  slenderness,  beauty,  and,  above 
all,  personality.  Tricks  and  technique  were  unnecessary. 
A  play  was  written  around  her,  a  company  of  competent 
actors  worked  up  the  scenes  for  her,  and  she  walked  off 
with  the  affections  of  the  public,  and  the  regard  of  the 
managers.  Evelyn  was  the  type,  and  Brandon  had 

-283- 


The  Least  Resistance 

secured  a  play  which  had  been  the  successful  vehicle 
of  an  English  actress  similar  to  her  in  appearance  and 
personality. 

In  June,  Evelyn,  accompanied  by  Martin,  sailed  for 
Europe.  She  was  to  spend  a  month  of  rest  in  Switzer- 
land, and  the  middle  of  July  meet  Brandon  in  Paris  to 
select  her  wardrobe  for  the  forthcoming  play. 

The  first  weeks  in  Switzerland  with  the  removedness 
from  her  accustomed  world,  the  farawayness  from  all 
that  pertained  to  the  theatre,  and  as  a  substitute  the  magic 
beauty  of  the  blue  lakes ;  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the 
guarding  mountains ;  the  little  excursions  that  she  and 
Martin  made  into  quaint  villages  filled  her  with  deep, 
quiet  joy. 

But  gradually  the  novelty  wore  off,  and  time  hung 
heavily  enough  on  her  hands.  She  hadn't  the  strength  for 
long  tramps;  no  great  love  of  reading;  no  aptitude  for 
study,  and  a  shrinking  from  unknown  people.  Her  mind 
was  forced  to  turn  in  on  itself  for  entertainment — but 
entertainment  was  scarcely  what  it  derived  from  these 
excursions  over  its  own  domain. 

The  stretch  of  painful  years  that  led  up  to  her  present 
position — the  old  days  of  privation  and  anxiety,  far  off 
as  they  were,  still  hurt.  Then  old  friends,  Harmon, 
Bratton,  Hale,  Hubbard,  all  gone  out  of  her  life.  She 
thought  oftenest  of  Hubbard.  There  had  been  a  quality 
about  him  that  gripped  her,  and  kept  him  first  in  her 
regard  in  spite  of  the  lapse  of  time.  He  was  the  one  man 
who  had  loved  her  with  any  unselfishness;  the  only  one 
who  would  have  loved  her  to  the  end,  after  passion  was 
spent,  and  youth  gone.  And  since  her  present  life  sup- 
plied everything  but  romance  she  clothed  him  in  the 
bright  raiment  of  the  ideal,  and  allowed  a  poignant 
regret  to  envelope  her  whenever  her  mind  dwelt  upon 
him. 

The  only  link  that  bound  her  to  the  old  days  was  her 
—284— 


The  Least  Resistance 

friendship  for  Mary  Leighton,  and  this  friendship  rested 
on  the  memory  of  bygone  times,  and  Mary's  gratitude 
for  the  chance  that  had  been  given  her  through  Evelyn. 
The  two  girls  were  diametrically  opposed  in  their 
thoughts  and  feelings.  Mary,  with  face  set  resolutely 
towards  a  goal,  arriving  each  day  nearer  artistic  perfec- 
tion, flowering  as  actress,  and  as  a  woman ;  Evelyn, 
drifting  farther  from  the  actual,  meeting  without  resist- 
ance the  pressure  of  events  which  now  pushed  her 
towards  success,  but  might  at  any  moment,  as  she  well 
knew,  hurl  her  into  disaster. 

"Acting"  — '  "parts"  —  "interpretations,"  these  were 
words  she  used  without  any  realisation  of  their  true 
meaning  or  importance.  Often  she  said  to  herself  that 
if  she  were  stronger  in  body  and  will  she  would  care 
more  vitally  for  her  Art.  "But  I  don't  care  about  Art, 
I  want  a  home,  and  husband  and  children " 

There  would  be  a  fierce  putting  aside  of  this  mood, 
and  a  stern  counting  up  of  her  present  blessings.  How 
many  women  in  her  profession  would  give  years  out  of 
their  lives  for  her  hold  on  the  all-powerful  Brandon! 
A  wave  of  gratitude  would  sweep  over  her  as  she  remem- 
bered how  good  he  had  been  to  her.  His  regard  was  not 
a  common  vulgar  passion,  but  something  finer,  better. 
Even  his  jealousy  which  isolated  her  from  all  companion- 
ship save  Martin's  was  not  a  hardship,  since  she  cared  so 
little  for  people  in  general. 

Sometimes  she  wondered  how  long  his  infatuation  for 
her  would  last,  and  what  would  become  of  her  when  it 
had  passed.  Would  she  be  so  well  established  that  other 
managers  would  want  her  ?  The  long  days  gave  her  time 
for  many  other  questions,  but  they  offered  no  solution 
except  one  and  that  Evelyn  could  not  adopt — to  save 
money.  Where  could  she  begin?  What  could  she  do 
without?  It  was  disagreeable  to  think  about  it  and  she 
turned  to  pleasanter  matters. 

-285- 


The  Least  Resistance 

Then  one  morning  as  she  emerged  from  a  shop  where 
one  got  the  English  papers  she  came  face  to  face  with 
Bratton  Wayne. 

His  surprise  at  seeing  her  was  not  so  genuine  as  hers, 
for  he  had  heard  from  Mary  Leighton,  who  was  playing 
a  summer  engagement  in  London,  that  Evelyn  was  in 
Switzerland,  and  he  had  wandered  about  hoping 
their  paths  would  cross.  But  his  pleasure  over  the 
meeting  was  no  greater  than  hers,  for  she  had  grown 
weary  of  her  own  society,  and  restless  and  eager  for 
excitement. 

"What  a  joyful  surprise !"  Evelyn  said. 

"Nothing  so  wonderful  has  happened  in — oh,  ever  so 
long,"  he  answered,  as  her  hand  rested  in  his. 

"What  are  you  doing  here — writing?" 

"No,  loafing,"  and  as  his  hand  released  hers,  "and 
you?" 

"Resting — supposed  to  be  at  any  rate.  I  am  to  be 
thrust  on  a  defenceless  public  as  a  star  next  fall  and  I'm 
trying  to  get  in  good  physical  condition." 

"Haven't  you  been  well?" 

"Yes,  but  a  long  winter  in  New  York  wears  one  out." 

"Are  you  alone?"  he  asked,  scarcely  knowing  how  to 
frame  his  question. 

"Yes,  except  for  the  faithful  Martin." 

"Then  may  I  claim  you  for  lunch — it  would  be  such  a 
pleasure  to  me." 

"And  me — quite  like  old  times " 

"When  you  used  to  say,  'Why,  I  should  love  to.'  "  And 
he  smiled  at  her. 

"I  should  have  gone  hungry  many  a  time  but  for 
you,"  she  said. 

He  made  no  answer,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence, 

but  by  the  time  they  were  seated  in  a  shaded  corner  of 

the  dining  porch,  and    an    urbane    French  waiter  had 

hovered  over  them  suggesting  this  dish  and  that  wine, 

—286— 


The  Least  Resistance 

the  restraint  passed,  and  something  of  the  quality  of 
their  old  pleasant  comradeship  returned. 

"Now  tell  me  about  the  starring  venture,"  he  said, 
when  the  solicitous  waiter  had  vanished. 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell.  We  are  just  going  to  try  it. 
I  really  would  like  to  wait  another  year,  but  Mr.  Brandon 
says  'no.'  You  know  'youth's  for  an  hour,'  and  we  must 
take  advantage  of  it." 

"There  is  still  enough  left  of  that  not  to  hasten  the 
advantage." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  sure,"  Evelyn  answered,  "if  I  had  my  hat 
off  I  could  show  you  a  grey  hair  or  two " 

"That  means  nothing  these  strenuous  days " 

"It  means  that  thirty  is  creeping  on " 

"And  then  what?" 

"No  man  knoweth.  But  youth  is  then  no  longer  one's 
chief  asset." 

"The  great  American  fallacy — Unconquerable  Youth. 
It's  a  most  pernicious  doctrine.  They  call  this  the  age 
of  young  men !  You  show  me  the  men  who  are  accom- 
plishing things,  and  I'll  show  you  men  who  have  grey 
in  their  hair — and  in  their  souls,  too !" 

"Yes,  perhaps — unless " 

"Unless  what?" 

Evelyn  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  can't  express  my 
thoughts  any  better  now  than  I  could  then." 

"You  have  the  same  tantalising  charm  you  had  then — 
intensified,"  he  added  softly,  as  though  not  to  her. 

"It's  good  to  meet  you — off  here  in  Switzerland.  With 
nothing  but  strangers  and  the  mountains,  one  feels  a 
very  small,  unimportant  person,"  Evelyn  said  with  a 
smile. 

"Perhaps  that  is  good  for  you  after  a  winter  of  success 
and  adulation." 

"I  remember,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "that  every- 
thing is  good  for  one,  but  you  see  I  can't  turn  all  of 

—287— 


The  Least  Resistance 

my  hopes,  and  fears,  and  experiences  into  profit  as  you 
can." 

"There  are  some  that  escape  me,"  he  said  seriously. 

She  saw  that  he  wanted  to  talk  of  the  old  times ;  saw, 
too,  that  he  was  willing  for  her  to  know  that  the  loss 
of  her  had  been  a  blow,  and  as  she  dallied  with  the 
food  before  her  she  began  to  speculate  what  her  life 
would  have  been  had  she  gone  with  him. 

Why  had  she  been  saved  from  him  to  be  a  short  time 
later  hurled  into  the  arms  of  Brandon?  In  reality, 
Bratton  Wayne  offered  her  a  life  more  congenial  to 
her  temperament.  Instead  of  the  excitement  and  strain 
of  professional  advancement,  and  the  isolation  of  jeal- 
ous control,  there  would  have  been  freedom  and  the 
pursuit  of  happiness  and  culture.  Perhaps  in  time  she 
would  have  grown  very  fond  of  him. 

Then  Evelyn  remembered  his  offer  made  in  calmness 
and  with  many  reservations.  If  he  made  it  again,  would 
it  be  in  the  same  spirit?  No,  for  she  was  different. 
She  understood  men  now  as  she  had  not  in  the  old 
days.  She  had  an  infinite  capacity  to  play  on  those  who 
were  attracted  to  her.  It  would  be  an  easy  matter  to 
re-claim  him — to  lead  him  on.  It  would  pass  the  time, 
fill  the  days  with  excitement — it  would 

Then  a  hot  flush  of  shame  passed  over  her.  Had 
she  no  longer  any  loyalty,  any  sense  of  honour?  Was 
this  the  deep  truth  of  the  world's  dictum,  that  chastity 
is  the  warp  of  a  woman's  character — the  other  virtues 
the  woof — destroy  the  warp  and  the  fabric  falls  to  pieces. 
With  terrifying  clearness  the  thought  came  to  her  that 
morality  was  something  more  than  a  convention  estab- 
lished in  a  man-ruled  world,  more  than  a  shibboleth 
of  joyless  Puritans — it  was  the  very  stuff  of  life.  For 
the  first  time  she  felt  that  she  had  sinned;  and  a  great 
shame  was  upon  her. 
—288— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  seeing  the  flush  on  her  cheeks 
and  the  bewilderment  in  her  eyes. 

"Nothing — yes,  something — some  time  I  shall  ask  you 
a  question." 

"Not  now?" 

"No,  not  now,  but  another  question  now."  She  hur- 
ried on  to  less  dangerous  ground.  "When  you  were  in 
London,  did  you  see  Mary  Leighton  act?" 

"Yes;  why?" 

"She  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and  I'm  so  proud  of 
her  success." 

"Yes,  she  is  a  great  actress.  Practically  unknown 
until  a  short  time  ago,  wasn't  she?" 

"Yes,  she  and  I  did  a  melodrama  together  back  in 
the  twilight  of  our  youth." 

"She  has  made  an  enormous  success  in  London,  and 
you  know  such  success  is  good  for  the  theatre.  I  should 
imagine  that  she  had  had  a  very  hard  time  to  win  rec- 
ognition, and  not  the  type  that  receives  much  assist- 
ance. It  shows  that  the  real  stuff  will  win  out  in  time 
— if  it  can  stand  the  gaff " 

"I  wonder "  Evelyn  said  thoughtfully. 

"Of  course  I  do,  too,  when  I  stop  to  think,"  he  an- 
swered with  a  whimsical  smile  that  she  thought  charm- 
ing, "but  one  likes  to  believe  in  the  reward  of  virtue." 

"I'm  sure  of  its  reward,"  she  said  with  such  sin- 
cerity that  he  looked  at  her  quickly.  She  flushed  under 
his  glance,  for  it  seemed  as  if  some  one  else  had  spoken, 
for  until  this  very  moment  the  hot  cry  of  her  heart  had 
been :  "It's  the  only  way." 

They  parted  after  luncheon  with  the  promise  that  she 
would  dine  with  him. 

"Little  frail  dancer  in  the  Temple  of  Delight,"  he 
mused  after  she  had  left  him,  "dancing  yourself  to- 
wards destruction,  and  taking  as  many  of  us  as  you 
can  with  you." 

—289— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Bratton  Wayne  hurried  to  his  hotel,  and  gave  his  man 
instructions  to  pack  up  for  leaving  the  next  morning. 
Then  to  bolster  up  his  resolution  he  went  for  a  long 
walk.  He  gave  his  attention  to  the  mountains,  to  the 
grass  and  the  flowers  at  his  feet,  to  the  passers-by ;  stop- 
ping to  speak  to  red-faced  children  and  shy  mothers, 
but  as  he  walked  on  his  interest  in  his  surroundings 
flagged,  and  face  to  face  with  a  shining  peak  he  said 
aloud :  "Women  like  that  grip  you — and  they  can  hurt — 
God,  how  they  must  have  been  hurt  to  have  learned  so 
well  the  trick." 

It  was  a  new  Evelyn  that  had  burst  in  on  the  waiting 
Martin,  who  had  grown  anxious  as  her  absence  length- 
ened. There  was  colour  in  her  cheeks,  a  light  in  her 
eyes,  and  a  lift  in  her  usually  apathetic  voice  as  she 
called  out :  "Here  I  am,  Martin !" 

The  maid  looked  up  from  her  sewing.  "What  is  it — 
are  you  well,  Miss  Lane?" 

"Well?  I  never  felt  better,"  she  said  as  she  threw 
off  her  hat,  and  danced  to  a  mirror.  "I'm  beginning 
to  get  the  good  of  Switzerland — I'm  almost  pretty  again 
— eh,  Martin?" 

"You  are  always  pretty,  but  it's  good  to  see  you  look 
so  well  and  happy." 

"Yes,  yes.  I  don't  think  it  agrees  with  me  to  rest 
too  much  and  to  be  alone — I  need  excitement." 

"Did  you  see  some  one  you  know?"  Martin  asked. 

"Yes,  an  old  friend.  I  am  going  to  have  dinner  with 
him.  What  shall  I  wear?  Lavender — he  used  to  like 
lavender,  or  perhaps  the  only  evening  dress  I  had  was 
that  colour  and  he  was  gallant.  But  I'll  wear  it — that 
Paquin  shepherdess  thing,  and  my  little  black  hat  and 
earrings.  Why,  I  feel  like  a  girl  going  to  her  first 
party !" 

Martin  moved  about  silently,  following  directions. 
She  was  fond  of  Evelyn,  but  Brandon  had  engaged  her, 
— 290 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  she  must  look  out  for  the  future.  She  had  served 
too  many  mushroom  stars  to  have  any  faith  in  their 
permanence,  and  with  a  widowed  daughter  and  grand- 
children to  provide  for,  it  behooved  her  to  be  loyal  to 
the  greater  purse.  But  Evelyn,  all  unconscious  of  this, 
chatted  away,  planning  for  her  evening  appearance. 

Bratton  Wayne  called  for  her  at  six,  and  it  was  a 
radiant,  exquisite  Evelyn  that  sat  by  his  side  as  the 
motor-car  whirled  them  up  the  mountain  road  to  the  Inn 
selected  by  Bratton. 

They  dined  on  a  porch  that  swept  the  mountain  side 
and  looked  across  to  white-capped  peaks  that  glowed 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  The  lovely  twilight 
shaded  into  night,  and  lanterns  were  lighted.  Other 
diners  arrived;  there  was  the  buzz  of  talk;  the  hurry- 
ing of  attentive  waiters,  and  golden  wine  poured  in 
bright,  waiting  glasses. 

As  Evelyn  lifted  her  glass  she  glanced  across  to 
Bratton.  In  his  eyes  she  read  flattering  interest  and 
a  desire  to  please  her.  A  little  ecstatic  quiver  flashed 
over  her — this  had  been  the  lack  of  the  past  weeks. 
She  could  no  longer  thrive  alone,  no  longer  do  with- 
out the  stimulation  of  masculine  admiration. 

"You  have  changed,"  he  said  at  last. 

"In  three  years,  who  wouldn't  ?"  she  asked. 

"But  more  than  that,"  he  insisted. 

"Two  prosperous  years  after  so  many  lean  ones " 

she  suggested. 

"Yes,  that  is  true — perhaps  you  haven't  changed — 
it's  just  that  the  candle  has  been  lighted." 

"The  unlit  candle  had  no  value,"  she  said  thought- 
fully. 

"It  had  possibilities " 

Evelyn  laughed  a  little  sad  laugh  calculated  uncon- 
sciously to  produce  an  effect  on  him.  It  was  success- 

—291 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

ful,  for  a  silence  fell  between  them,  a  silence  tense  with 
meaning,  and  delicious  to  Evelyn  in  its  insinuation. 

"I  may  not  be  a  great  actress,"  she  was  saying  to 
herself,  during  this  silence;  "I  may  not  be  intellectual 
or  even  beautiful,  but  I  do  know  men.  I  do  attract,  I 

can  hold — I "  The  sense  of  her  power  thrilled  her. 

She  knew  instinctively  what  he  expected  of  her;  what 
would  grip  him — the  old  Evelyn  saddened  by  conditions 
that  she  could  not  comprehend,  and  looking  back  with 
wistful  regret  to  the  days  they  had  spent  together,  and 
filled  with  gentle  pain  that  they  had  lost  each  other.  As 
she  formulated  this  theory  of  his  attitude  a  faint  smile 
played  about  her  mouth — her  sense  of  humour  was 
growing. 

"How  is  the  new  book  coming  on  ?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"It  is  at  a  standstill.  I've  gone  stale.  Came  to 
Switzerland  hoping " 

"For  inspiration?" 

"Shall  I  be  truthful?"  he  asked. 

"I  expect  that  of  you  always." 

"In  London,  Mary  Leighton  told  me  that  you  were 
here " 

In  the  distance  a  group  of  peasants  began  to  sing — a 
mountain  song  that  called  to  sheep,  that  called  to  love. 
The  quaint  lilting  song  cut  through  the  blue  night,  the 
yodelling  woke  the  echoes.  The  chatter  on  the  porch 
ceased,  the  waiters  moved  even  more  quietly,  pouring 
the  champagne.  A  boy  in  a  picturesque  costume  passed 
their  table  and  laid  an  edelweiss  before  Evelyn.  Brat- 
ton  Wayne  handed  him  a  coin. 

"Nothing  is  unattainable,"  she  said  as  she  looked  at  the 
flower. 

Once  home,  Bratton  countermanded  his  order  to  his 
man.  His  departure  was  indefinite. 

The  days  passed,  days  of  pleasure,  of  delight,  and 
— 292 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

of  reckless  disregard  of  consequences.  They  motored  to 
nearby  villages,  rowed  across  the  blue  lake  to  explore 
the  picturesque  grounds  of  a  deserted  chateau ;  dined  in 
the  evening  on  the  porch  that  swept  the  mountain  side. 
And  all  the  while  Bratton's  mind  played  about  her  in 
the  old  searchlight  fashion,  making  this  phase  clear, 
commenting  on  that,  speculating  on  other  qualities  that 
refused  to  yield  to  his  searching  scrutiny. 

And  though  his  lips  never  framed  the  words,  his 
eyes  said  that  she  was  fascinating,  adorable,  that  he  had 
never  ceased  to  regret  her  loss.  There  was  an  artistry, 
a  lack  of  violence  about  him  that  called  into  play  all 
of  her  own  deftness  and  subtlety.  Flirting  with  him  had 
all  the  charm  of  the  transient  and  forbidden.  When  it 
was  over  each  would  hold  a  sweet  memory.  If  in  his 
there  lurked  a  touch  of  sadness,  compensation  would 
come  in  the  book  that  it  evoked.  She  would  return 
to  the  heavy  engrossing  passion  of  Brandon  with  a  new 
sense  of  power. 

So  Evelyn  theorised  during  the  hours  that  she  was 
alone,  and  when  they  were  together  she  fenced  skil- 
fully to  keep  their  relation  well  within  the  bounds  of 
her  theory. 

"You  think  ink  flows  in  my  veins,"  he  said  to  her 
one  moonlight  night  as  they  sat  on  the  piazza  of  her 
hotel. 

"Yes,  and  your  index  finger  is  a  fountain  pen !"  And 
there  was  a  note  of  forced  gaiety  in  her  voice.  All 
evening  she  had  been  quiet,  and  thoughtful,  and  it  had 
required  this  thrust  of  his  to  arouse  her  to  some  sem- 
blance of  the  Evelyn  of  the  past  week. 

"Because  I  theorise,  I  don't  feel?"  he  said,  follow- 
ing up  the  opening  she  had  given  him. 

"Oh,  you  feel,  but  you  enjoy  your  feelings ;  I  hate 
mine,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  vehemence.  "Feelings 
are  only  for  big  people,  like  Mary  Leighton,  who  can 

—293— 


The  Least  Resistance 

conquer  them,  or  creative  persons,  like  you,  who  can 
make  them  profitable.  But  for  the  rest  of  us  poor 
mortals,  the  sooner  we  take  an  emotional  anaesthetic 
and  have  done  with  'feelings'  the  better  off  we  are." 

"What  a  desperate  theory  for  a  young  woman." 

"Not  desperate — sensible." 

"No,  you  aren't  sensible,"  he  said  soberly;  "you  are 
pitching  headlong " 

"To  my  doom?  Well,  didn't  you  once  say  it  slept 
in  my  eyes — you  see,  I  remember.  But  let's  not  be 
serious.  This  is  our  last  evening  under  the  Swiss 
moon." 

"Our  last  evening?" 

"Yes;  I  am  going  to  Paris  in  the  morning." 

"Why  ?"  he  asked,  almost  afraid  of  his  question. 

"I  have  been  ordered  there.  The  wire  came  while  I 
was  dressing  for  dinner.  Did  you  think  that  a  suc- 
cessful young  actress  on  the  eve  of  stardom  was  a 
free  agent?"  She  turned  on  him  with  mocking  eyes. 

"Don't  get  bitter,  Evelyn  Hope;  it  doesn't  suit  you," 
he  said  gently. 

"I  am  bitter!  I'm  sad — desperate — reckless!"  She 
had  risen  and  was  standing  by  the  railing  of  the  porch 
looking  out  over  the  moonlit  lake.  "The  world  is  so 
beautiful;  why  should  life  be  so  hideous?" 

"Listen."  He  came  and  stood  by  her.  "I  don't  un- 
derstand everything,  but  I  know  that  you  need  to  get 
away  from  your  present  environment.  Let  me  help  you 
— just  as  a  good  friend,  let  me  help  you." 

"I  don't  need  any  help,"  she  answered.  "I'm  all 
right;  at  least,  things  are  all  right.  I'm  not  very  well, 
and  apt  to  be  hysterical,  but" — she  turned  to  him  with 
outstretched  hand — "it's  been  good  to  see  you  here,  and 
thank  you.  Good  night  now,  or  rather  good-bye." 

In  her  room  Evelyn  found  Martin  packing  the  trunks. 
—294— 


The  Least  Resistance 

No  word  was  exchanged  between  the  mistress  and  maid 
until  Martin  offered  to  undress  her. 

"I  can  do  it  myself,  you  have  other  things  to  do." 
A  look  passed  between  the  two  women,  and  in  that  look 
Martin  read  that  Evelyn  knew  who  had  betrayed  her 
to  Brandon. 

When  she  was  ready  for  bed,  she  opened  her  travel- 
ling bag  and  took  from  a  compartment  a  sleeping  pow- 
der. She  swallowed  it,  and  crept  into  bed,  pulling  the 
light  cover  close  up  under  her  chin.  A  convulsive  shiver 
swept  over  her  body,  and  between  the  closed  lids  the 
hot  tears  forced  their  way. 

"I'll  have  the  light  out  in  a  few  minutes,"  Martin  said 
gently. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Evelyn  answered ;  "I  shall  sleep." 


—295— 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

EVELYN  and  Martin  arrived  in  Paris  the  next  even- 
ing after  a  hot,  dusty,  tedious  journey.  During  the 
early  part  of  the  trip  Evelyn  had  sat  huddled  in  her 
corner,  limp  and  depressed  as  usual  after  a  sleeping 
powder.  Her  heart  beat  with  a  slow,  pumping  rhythm, 
and  there  was  a  numbness  at  the  base  of  the  brain  which 
crept  higher  and  higher  until  a  heavy  drowsiness  over- 
came her.  From  this  she  would  wake  suddenly  with 
twitching  nerves  and  accelerated  heart  action. 

Later  in  the  day  her  compartment  was  invaded  by 
three  young  girls  from  Detroit  who,  under  the  chaper- 
onage  of  a  handsome  middle-aged  woman,  were  "doing 
Europe."  Though  one  would  not  have  known  it  from 
their  talk,  for  beyond  a  reference  to  a  "darling  Aus- 
trian officer"  they  had  met,  their  conversation  was  en- 
tirely of  persons  and  affairs  in  Detroit.  To  whom  they 
had  written,  from  whom  they  had  heard,  what  girls 
were  to  make  their  debuts  next  year,  and  the  "cases" 
of  their  friends.  Much  time  was  spent  trying  to  solve 
the  mystery  of  Howard  Doty's  charm — why  so  many 
girls  had  "a  case"  on  him.  Their  voices  were  high- 
pitched,  and  often  the  three  were  talking  at  the  same 
time. 

The  chaperone  was  immersed  in  a  yellow-backed 
novel,  and  apparently  undisturbed  by  the  chatter  of 
her  charges. 

For  a  while  the  girls  amused  Evelyn,  but  as  the  after- 
noon waned,  and  there  was  no  ebb  in  their  flow  of  talk, 
she  grew  nervous  and  irritable,  and  filled  with  dread  of 
the  meeting  with  Brandon. 
— 296— 


The  Least  Resistance 

He  was  at  the  station  waiting  for  her,  and  in  re- 
sponse to  her  greeting  he  lifted  his  hat  and  turned  to 
Martin  with  directions  that  she  go  ahead  in  the  first 
cab  with  the  luggage. 

With  a  half-anxious  glance  at  her  mistress,  the  maid 
stepped  into  the  taxi  and  was  driven  away.  Brandon 
led  the  way  to  the  next  cab,  and  as  Evelyn  followed 
she  watched  him  with  a  curious  detachment.  Even 
after  she  was  seated  by  his  side,  she  could  scarcely 
realise  that  his  gloom,  his  sullenness,  and  controlled 
rage  were  directed  against  her.  She  seemed  so  very 
aloof  from  him. 

Through  the  long  journey  she  had  pictured  many  times 
the  meeting,  and  tried  to  formulate  her  line  of  action. 
Should  she  be  gay  and  unobservant  of  his  mood,  or  sad 
and  repentant,  or  so  alluring  to  his  senses  that  he  would 
forget  his  grievance? 

At  the  present  moment  she  felt  unequal  to  any  role, 
save  that  of  languid  indifference.  But  soon  the  very 
warmth  and  humanness  of  the  man  close  by  her  side  at- 
tracted her,  and  she  had  a  desire  to  lay  her  head  on  his 
shoulder  and  go  to  sleep  like  a  tired  child. 

If  only  he  wouldn't  scold;  if  he  would  turn  to  her 
with  some  gentle  word,  she  would  be  so  grateful  to 
him.  Evelyn  felt  that  if  he  spoke  the  right  word,  a 
great,  wonderful  love  would  spring  up  in  her  heart  for 
him.  Perhaps  he  would  speak  if  she  gave  him  a  chance. 

Then  in  a  sudden  flare  of  a  street  lamp  she  caught 
a  clear  view  of  his  profile.  The  lips  were  closed,  the  firm 
jaw  set,  the  sullen  eyes  staring  ahead,  and  the  powerful 
hands  clasped  before  him.  With  a  sigh  Evelyn  sank 
back  in  her  corner — here  was  no  light  mood  to  be  dis- 
sipated by  an  affectionate  appeal. 

It  was  a  clear,  warm  summer  evening,  and  as  the  car 
sped  down  the  tree-lined  avenue,  it  seemed  to  Evelyn  that 
all  Paris  was  out  for  an  airing.  Motor-cars  filled  with 

—297— 


The  Least  Resistance 

gay  parties  whirled  by;  the  sidewalks  were  crowded 
with  laughing,  talking  pedestrians;  the  open-air  res- 
taurants were  doing  a  thriving  business.  Everywhere 
there  was  an  atmosphere  of  festivity,  and  through  this 
the  taxi  raced — the  gloom  within  setting  it,  in  Evelyn's 
mind,  against  all  the  joy  of  the  world. 

The  car  wheeled  suddenly  from  the  avenue,  and 
stopped  before  an  imposing  doorway.  Brandon  jumped 
out,  and  assisted  Evelyn,  and  when  the  chauffeur  had 
been  dismissed  he  hurried  her  through  a  high-arched 
doorway,  up  a  flight  of  carpeted  stairs. 

In  answer  to  a  ring  Martin  opened  the  door,  and 
Evelyn  stepped  into  the  vestibule  of  a  small  apart- 
ment. 

"This  is  pretty — am  I  to  live  here?"  she  asked,  but 
Brandon  made  no  answer. 

"That  will  do,  Martin,"  he  said  to  the  maid. 

Evelyn,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  caught  in 
a  mirror  over  the  mantel  the  almost  beseeching  look 
with  which  Martin  answered  her  dismissal. 

"Well,"  he  said  the  moment  they  were  alone,  "so  you've 
been  playing  tricks  on  me." 

"Oh,  C.  B.,  am  I  to  be  scolded  when  I'm  upset  and 
tired  and  hungry?  Couldn't  I  have  a  bath,  and  sup- 
per?" 

"You  are  to  answer  my  questions,  and  no  acting  now/' 

"What  questions?"  she  asked  wearily. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to  this  past  week  ?" 

"Nothing,"  Evelyn  said,  dropping  into  a  chair.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"Ah!  can't  I  let  you  out  of  my  sight  for  a  moment 
that  some  other  man " 

"Oh,  C.  B.,  there  was  no  other  man;  there  is 
none " 

"I  happen  to  know  better  than  that,"  he  cut  in. 

"Oh,  C.  B.,  there  is  no  other  man " 

—298— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"That  Wayne  fellow,  wasn't  he  with  you  morning, 
night,  and  noon  for  the  past  week?"  he  demanded 
fiercely. 

"No,  he  wasn't.  He  came  by  accident — I  met  him 
one  morning  and  we  went  about  a  little.  We  were  old 
friends — there  was  nothing  disloyal  in  my  seeing  him." 

"There  never  is  anything,  to  hear  you  women  talk. 
You  think  I  don't  know  you — your  type!  The  woods 
are  thick  with  your  kind — you  can't  go  straight — tell  the 
truth." 

"C.  B.,  you  mustn't — you " 

"Oh — don't  you  suppose  I  know  all  about  you — from 
the  time  you  were  married  on?  I  know  all  about  Hale 
Johnston.  I  suppose  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  woman 
could  have  a  friendship  with  him!  The  most  depraved 
man  on  the  American  stage;  and  you  were  intimate 
with  him  for  months — and  you  pretend " 

"Don't  say  such  things  to  me — they  aren't  true " 

"Oh,  yes,  they're  true!  And  the  Wayne  Brothers — 
both  of  them,  and  back  on  that  vaudeville  circuit " 

"Don't  you  dare !"  she  cried,  rising  and  facing  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will !  I  know  all  about  you — some  of  your 
old  friends  have  been  sending  me  anonymous  letters 
for  a  year,  but  I  believed  you  with  your  damned  soft 
ways.  And  you've  used  me,  young  lady,  right  up  to 
the  hilt — but  I'm  on  to  you  now!  You  are  Broadway's 
leading " 

"No !"  Evelyn  cried,  above  the  vile  word.  She  started 
towards  the  door,  but  he  blocked  the  way.  "Let  me 
out,"  she  pleaded. 

"You  stay  here,"  he  said  brutally. 

"I  can't,"  she  said,  gasping  for  air.    "I  must  go " 

"And  where  are  you  going  this  hour  of  the  night?" 

"I  don't  know — oh,  what  does  it  matter?  Let  me 
go!"  She  pushed  feebly  against  him. 

"You'll  stay  here — you'll  hear  me  out!"  A  new  evil 

—290— 


The  Least  Resistance 

light  flamed  in  his  eyes.  "So  he's  followed  you  here — 
you  want  to  go  to  him !" 

The  elemental  man,  so  carefully  concealed  beneath  the 
calmness  and  suavity  of  his  daily  manner,  leaped  to  the 

surface.     "You  little  ,"  again  came  the  vile  word, 

and  his  hands  closed  about  her  slender  throat  in  a  vise- 
like  grip.  Her  head  fell  back,  a  gurgling  sound  issued 
from  her  throat.  Brandon's  hands  relaxed,  and  she 
crumpled  up  at  his  feet  with  a  white,  lifeless  face 
turned  up  to  his. 

"Evelyn!"  he  cried  in  sudden  alarm,  dropping  on 
the  floor  by  her.  "Evelyn — little  one,  I  didn't  mean — — " 
He  was  passing  his  hands  over  her  face,  lifting  her  limp 
hands  to  his  lips,  but  there  was  no  response.  He  picked 
her  up  and  laid  her  on  a  couch,  then  hurried  to  the 
door  to  call  Martin. 

The  maid  hurried  in,  and  dropping  by  the  side  of  the 
couch  began  chafing  the  cold  wrists. 

"Get  some  whiskey — I'll  do  that,"  Brandon  said. 

They  propped  her  up  with  cushions,  forced  the  brandy 
between  her  teeth.  Martin  loosened  her  hair,  and  her 
clothes,  took  off  her  slippers  and  covered  her  with  a 
shawl;  and  a  little  later  Evelyn  opened  her  eyes  and 
looked  about  the  room. 

She  was  lying  on  a  pink-and-gold  couch  facing  long 
French  windows.  A  tall  vase  filled  with  pink  roses 
stood  on  a  nearby  table;  there  were  some  pictures  on 
the  wall,  and  a  large  gilt  mirror  over  the  mantel.  Mar- 
tin was  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  and  Brandon  sat  in 
a  chair  drawn  up  at  her  side,  holding  her  hand  in  his. 
Her  head  shifted,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"Evelyn,"  he  said  imploringly. 

"It  was  the  sleeping  powder — it  always  affects  my 
heart." 

Brandon's   head  bowed  over  her  hand,  and   Martin 
tactfully  left  the  room. 
—300— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Evelyn,  little  one,  forgive  me — I  was  a  brute- 


She  looked  at  him,  wanting  to  speak,  but  it  was 
an  effort  that  she  felt  unequal  to  just  now.  It  was 
more  comfortable  to  lie  quiet,  and  inert,  and  listen  to 
his  halting  words  of  love  and  contrition.  And  through 
it  all,  with  the  abnormal  mental  activity  that  often 
accompanies  such  lassitude,  Evelyn  was  asking  herself 
a  hundred  questions. 

What  was  she  going  to  do?  Brandon's  jealousy  had 
often  flared  up  over  trifles,  but  never  had  she  glimpsed 
the  brute  in  him  until  to-night.  How  ugly  he  had 
been — the  piercing  cruelty  of  the  eyes,  the  thick  trem- 
bling lips,  and  the  hideous  words  he  had  hurled  at  her! 
And  the  anonymous  letters — the  thought  of  them  filled 
her  with  a  dumb  terror,  as  though  powerful,  unseen 
enemies  were  watching  her,  waiting  for  a  chance  to 
strike  her  down. 

If  she  followed  the  dictates  of  pride  and  left  Bran- 
don, where  would  she  go  ?  Would  other  managers  want 
her,  or  was  Brandon  powerful  enough  to  make  it  im- 
possible for  her  to  get  work?  Work — the  very  thought 
of  it  made  her  shiver.  She  wanted  a  rest,  a  long  rest. 

Then  came  thoughts  of  Bratton  Wayne,  and  the  night 
spent  under  the  Swiss  moon.  He  had  wanted  her,  had 
offered,  but  now,  after  that  last  talk,  he  must  despise 
her,  she  who  had  gone,  against  every  inclination,  to 
give  an  accounting  of  herself  to  her  owner.  And  her 
accounting  was  not  accepted,  she  had  been  met  with  in- 
sults and  brutality. 

And  there  was  no  escape.  He  was  bending  over  her, 
eager  for  a  reconciliation,  the  slumbering  passion  ready 
to  leap  into  life  at  the  least  sign  from  her.  And  through 
his  abuse  and  fury  he  had  wanted  her,  she  had  seen 
it  in  his  eyes,  and  had  she  not  been  so  worn  out  from 
the  long  day's  journey,  the  scene  might  have  been  averted 
by  a  quick  appeal  to  his  senses. 

—301— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Oh — oh "    A  little  protesting  moan  escaped  her. 

"Evelyn "  He  picked  her  up  and,  wrapping  the 

shawl  about  her,  carried  her  towards  the  window.  He 
seated  himself  in  a  large  arm-chair  and  held  her  in  his 
arms  as  though  she  were  a  little  child.  He  kissed  her 
hair  gently  and  whispered  tender  words  in  her  ear. 

"You  must  get  well  so  that  you  can  look  over  your 
new  home.  It's  a  pretty  little  place  and  it's  yours  for 
the  month.  It's  Madame  Marnet's  apartment — she's  in 
London  for  the  summer.  My  little  girl  must  get  well 
so  that  she  can  enjoy  it,  and  Paris — you  love  Paris — 
so  many  beautiful  dresses  here!" 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"I'm  going  to  make  you  have  a  good  time — I  love  you 
— I  love  you !" 

Her  head  drooped  on  his  shoulder,  and  all  resistance 
went  out  of  her  body.  After  all,  she  was  his.  In  his 
arms  she  was  warm  and  secure — at  least  for  a  while. 
The  future  didn't  matter  this  summer  evening  in  the 
gay  French  capital.  The  questions  ceased.  One  arm 
slipped  about  his  neck,  and  her  face  turned  up  to  his. 

"My  darling — my  darling,"  he  whispered  as  his  lips 
bent  in  a  crushing  kiss  to  hers. 


—30; 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

FOR  several  days  after  Evelyn  wore  a  soft,  white 
boa  about  her  throat.  Once  when  they  were  alone 
Brandon  took  it  off  and  kissed  the  blue  line.  They 
never  discussed  the  memorable  evening,  but  Brandon 
tried  to  make  it  up  to  her  by  acts  of  thought  and  lavish- 
ness. 

He  gave  her  extravagance  free  reign,  encouraging  her 
to  buy  everything  that  pleased  her  fancy.  He  was  espe- 
cially interested  in  the  gowns  that  she  was  getting  for 
the  new  play,  going  with  her  to  the  final  fittings,  com- 
menting and  suggesting,  showing  how  acute  was  his 
feeling  for  artistic  values. 

Evelyn  went  out  very  little,  for  a  suspicion  had  come 
to  Brandon  that  she  was  too  frail  for  a  summer  of  gaiety. 
He  wanted  her  to  save  her  strength  for  the  work  ahead 
of  her.  Since  the  moment  that  she  had  dropped  at  his 
feet,  lifeless  and  white,  a  new  note  had  crept  into  his 
devotion,  and  he  watched  over  her  with  a  protecting 
tenderness  as  though  she  were  a  priceless,  fragile 
possession. 

And  Evelyn's  response  was  a  deepened  sense  of  de- 
pendence and  security.  It  seemed  that  Brandon's  love 
was  a  cloak  that  would  shut  out  forever  the  winds  of 
adversity. 

In  the  mellowness  of  the  days  there  was  no  room  for 
hard  feeling  towards  Martin.  Evelyn  saw  that  she  had 
kept  faith  with  Brandon  even  at  the  expense  of  be- 
traying her  mistress,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond.  She 
manifested  her  fondness  in  a  hundred  little  ways  that 
the  letter  of  their  contract  did  not  call  for.  She  was 

—303— 


The  Least  Resistance 

never  too  tired,  never  too  sleepy  to  respond  gladly  to  any 
demand;  and  she  took  every  material  care  from  her. 
Evelyn  admitted  to  herself  with  a  little  ironic  smile  that 
she  was  too  dependent  on  Martin  to  cherish  any  resent- 
ment. 

The  month  passed  swiftly,  and  at  its  close  Evelyn,  ac- 
companied by  Martin  and  six  trunks,  sailed  for  New 
York.  Brandon  went  over  to  London  to  see  Mary 
Leighton,  who  was  playing  "Olga"  in  the  English  pro- 
duction of  the  play  and  duplicating  her  American  suc- 
cess. He  was  to  sail  a  week  later  from  Liverpool  to 
reach  home  in  time  for  the  beginning  of  the  re- 
hearsals of  "Millicent's  Little  Mistake,"  Evelyn's  star- 
ring vehicle. 

Evelyn  had  a  very  delightful  trip  over.  She  found 
herself  a  well-known  young  woman  who  aroused  the 
interest  and  curiosity  of  her  fellow-travellers.  Many  of 
them  were  eager  to  make  her  acquaintance,  but  she  pre- 
ferred the  sunny,  restful  solitude  of  her  deck  chair  and 
her  own  thoughts  of  the  stirring  weeks  ahead. 

However,  she  chatted  often  with  her  nearest  deck 
neighbours,  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  Strain.  Mrs. 
Strain,  a  slender,  refined,  sad-eyed  woman,  read  inces- 
santly books  whose  titles  were  familiar  to  Evelyn,  hav- 
ing seen  them  on  Mary  Leighton's  table — Ellen  Key, 
Charlotte  Perkins  Gilman — and  one  morning  she  brought 
up  a  new  book  by  H.  G.  Wells. 

"He  is  a  vital,  revealing  question  mark,"  she  said  to 
Evelyn. 

"It  seems  to  me  that's  what  life  is,"  Evelyn  answered ; 
then  added,  "itot  revealing,  though." 

"Possibly  more  revealing  than  we  like  to  admit,"  Mrs. 
Strain  replied,  and  went  on  in  her  quiet,  passionless  voice 
to  talk  of  things  that  interested  her — emancipation  and 
education. 

These  two  words  became  to  Evelyn,  with  her  trick  of 
—304— 


The  Least  Resistance 

visualising,  twin  giants  who  stalked  up  and  down  the 
deck,  bowing  low  to  Mrs.  Strain  as  they  passed,  ignor- 
ing every  one  else  as  unworthy  of  their  notice. 

It  was  difficult  to  reconcile  this  high-bred  friend  of 
emancipation  and  education  with  the  rapacious  splen- 
dour of  Mr.  Lawrence  Strain,  a  large,  heavy-jawed, 
lynx-eyed  man  of  fifty  who  covered  a  disfiguring  bald 
spot  with  ingenious  combing  of  the  hair  and  held  in  check 
his  embarrassing  embonpoint  with  the  aid  of  the  world's 
best  tailors. 

Mr.  Strain  ate  five  times  a  day — breakfast,  luncheon, 
tea  at  four,  dinner,  and  what  he  liked  to  call  a  "snack" 
before  retiring.  He  drank  a  quart  of  champagne  with 
his  dinner,  several  highballs  with  his  "snack,"  the  after- 
noon tea  was  heavily  flavoured  with  rum,  a  light  claret 
accompanied  his  luncheon,  and  each  morning  when  he 
appeared  on  deck  before  breakfast  a  boy  arrived  with 
an  eye-opening  cocktail. 

Mr.  Strain  wore  the  most  expensive  clothes ;  a  magnifi- 
cent pigeon-blood  ruby  adorned  one  large  white  finger; 
his  cigar  case,  match-box,  all  of  the  numerous  articles 
that  he  from  time  to  time  drew  from  his  pockets  were 
of  gold  exquisitely  wrought.  Between  the  fingers  of  his 
large  white  hand  a  long  black  cigar  rested;  the  other 
hand  was  plunged  in  his  pocket,  ready  to  appear  with  a 
generous  tip  for  the  slightest  service.  He  was  the  deck 
stewards'  delight! 

Evelyn  had  little  talk  with  him,  in  fact,  he  was  no 
talker,  but  he  was  constantly  offering  her  some  slight 
attention — would  she  like  a  book,  or  a  magazine,  would 
she  have  a  highball  or  a  cup  of  tea  or  a  lemonade — and 
all  the  while  he  looked  at  her  with  covetous  admiration. 

He  seemed  unaware  of  his  wife's  existence,  and  she 
treated  him  in  an  equally  detached  manner.  He  had 
an  occasional  contemptuous  word  about  "books"  and 

—305— 


The  Least  Resistance 

— -^ •—      -^— — ^— *^-™- *— »— — ^— — ^— — -~ 

"suffragettes,"  which  met  with  a  patient,  superior  smile 
from  his  wife. 

Evelyn  disliked  him  intensely,  especially  towards  the 
end  of  the  voyage  when  she  saw  him  manoeuvring  to 
have  a  few  moments  alone  with  her.  She  avoided  him 
so  skilfully  that  he  cursed  Fate  for  thwarting  his  de- 
sire to  make  headway  with  the  pretty  little  actress. 
These  girls  were  always  looking  for  a  man  with  money, 
and  he  was  liberal  with  women — if  he  could  only  get 
a  chance  to  let  her  know  as  much.  At  parting  he  prom- 
ised they  would  be  on  hand  for  her  opening,  and  she 
was  to  have  the  rarest  flowers  the  old  island  afforded. 

When  Brandon  arrived  from  England,  where  he  had 
negotiated  for  an  Australian  tour  for  Mary  Leighton  to 
follow  immediately  her  London  run,  Evelyn  told  him 
of  the  ship's  acquaintances. 

"About  town  they  call  Strain  'the  Sultan,' "  he  said. 
"He  is  disgustingly  rich,  and  disgustingly  vicious.  New 
York  gasped  when  Betty  Van  Allen  married  him — he 
squeezed  the  father,  and  married  the  daughter.  The  old 
man  died,  and  I  think  he  was  the  lucky  member  of 
the  family." 

For  some  time  Evelyn  thought  a  great  deal  of  the 
Strains,  but  with  the  beginning  of  rehearsals  they 
passed  from  her  mind,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  the 
comedy  and  pathos  of  "Millicent." 

The  play  which  Brandon  had  selected  for  Evelyn's 
initial  starring  had  run  for  a  season  in  London.  It 
was  a  deft,  polite  comedy  in  three  acts.  It  had  no 
great  moments,  it  touched  no  depths,  but  it  gave  the 
star  a  chance  to  wear  charming  gowns,  to  flirt  bewitch- 
ingly  through  the  first  act ;  to  be  bewildered,  and  tearful, 
and  filled  with  ingenue  rage  in  the  second;  and  to  purr 
contentedly  in  her  lover's  arms  in  the  last  act.  All  of 
this  was  within  Evelyn's  range. 

A  company  of  capable  English  actors  were  engaged 
—306— 


The  Least  Resistance 

to  support  her.  Much  thought  was  given  to  the  scenery 
— the  pretty  white-and-gold  drawing-room,  the  English 
garden  with  the  sunlight  falling  through  the  maple 
leaves,  and  the  heroine's  bedroom.  All  of  the  back- 
ground against  which  the  comedy  unfolded  itself  was 
pretty,  refined,  and  an  excellent  setting  for  beautiful 
gowns. 

At  times  Evelyn  felt  afraid  of  the  burden  that  rested 
on  her  shoulders,  but  Brandon  was  satisfied,  the  director 
coached  her  carefully  and  tactfully,  and  the  actors  im- 
plied by  their  manner  that  she  was  a  clever  young  actress 
and  more  than  equal  to  the  undertaking.  Gradually 
her  confidence  returned  and  she  threw  herself  with  spirit 
and  energy  into  the  creation  of  Millicent. 

After  four  weeks'  rehearsals  they  went  up  to  Provi- 
dence for  the  opening.  The  first  performance  ran 
through  without  a  hitch,  and  the  next  morning  the  pa- 
pers assured  Manager  Brandon  that  the  play  and  star 
were  up  to  his  standard. 

They  played  through  Connecticut  and  Massachusetts 
for  two  weeks,  working  the  play  into  shape  for  the 
Broadway  opening.  Lines  had  to  be  changed,  scenes 
shortened,  and  the  comedy  pointed  up  for  American 
audiences. 

The  last  night  of  the  two  weeks  they  played  in  Bridge- 
port, and  immediately  after  the  performance  the  com- 
pany hurried  to  the  station  to  catch  the  train  for  New 
York.  It  was  a  local  that  made  all  of  the  stops  and  was 
totally  innocent  of  the  comfort  of  a  parlour-car. 

As  Evelyn  huddled  in  a  seat  in  the  stuffy  coach,  and 
tried  to  sleep,  her  mind  flew  back  to  the  days  when  she 
and  Bob  had  played  in  "No  Guiding  Hand."  How  many 
times  had  they  travelled  all  night  in  such  cars  in  order 
to  reach  some  Middle  West  town  for  a  matinee. 

Then  she  had  been  a  poor,  struggling  little  actress,  a 
poor,  crushed  wife;  now  she  was  a  beloved  creature, 

—307— 


The  Least  Resistance 

a  successful  young  actress  about  to  make  her  debut  as 
a  Broadway  star.  It  seemed  strange — unreal,  as  though 
she  were  playing  a  part  in  a  dream — now  one  person, 
the  next  moment  another,  dropping  in  the  transition  all 
feeling  of  the  discarded  character. 

But  the  reality,  of  at  least  her  present  position, 
flashed  over  her  on  Monday  night.  She  and  Martin 
drove  to  the  theatre  directly  after  Evelyn's  light  dinner, 
and  as  the  taxi  dashed  past  the  front  of  the  house,  Martin 
pointed  to  the  sign.  She  looked,  and  there  printed  in 
brilliant  electric  letters  over  the  entrance  was  "Evelyn 
Lane— 'Millicent's  Little  Mistake.'" 

Then  she  realised  that  she  was  indeed  a  star!  A 
sweet  feeling  of  happiness  broke  in  her  heart,  and  in 
it  there  was  pride  and  courage.  She  would  justify  the 
bright  promise  held  out  to  the  public  by  those  electric 
letters. 

She  stepped  from  the  cab  at  the  stage  door,  passed 
the  old  door-tender,  who  bowed  ceremoniously,  and 
hurried  to  the  dressing  room.  Brandon  had  had  it 
done  over  in  her  honour,  and  equipped  it  with  all  neces- 
sary lights  and  mirrors,  and  electrical  devices  for  heat- 
ing curling-irons  and  cosmetics. 

Martin  had  been  down  during  the  afternoon  and  laid 
out  the  make-up,  and  hung  up  the  gowns — there  they 
were  resting  in  their  flowered  slips,  the  beautiful,  soft, 
fascinating  gowns  she  had  brought  from  Paris.  They 
would  like  her  clothes,  the  great  friendly  public,  and,  oh ! 
how  she  hoped  that  they  would  like  her. 

Then  Evelyn  turned  her  attention  to  the  boxes  of 
flowers  in  one  corner  of  the  room.  She  cut  strings 
and  opened  boxes — little  cries  of  delight  escaping  her 
at  their  contents.  Roses,  lilies,  orchids,  carnations,  and 
violets — the  box  of  long-stemmed  American  beauties 
were  from  the  Lawrence  Strains,  the  lilies  of  the  valley 
and  orchids  from  Brandon,  the  white  carnations  from 
—308— 


The  Least  Resistance 

little  Minnie  Carter  of  the  old  melodrama  days.    All  the 
rest  bore  the  names  of  old  and  new  friends. 

"We  must  send  them  to  the  Children's  Hospital,"  she 
said  to  Martin  as  she  inhaled  the  fragrance  of  the  violets 
from  Ann  Dwight.  "I  can't  keep  all  of  this  beauty  for 
myself." 

Then  she  turned  to  the  pile  of  telegrams  and  letters. 
They  were  all  full  of  congratulations  and  best  wishes 
for  her  success. 

Every  one  had  remembered  her  but  Bratton  Wayne 
— she  thought  of  him  in  the  midst  of  her  happiness  and 
turned  with  a  little  sigh  to  the  dressing  table. 

Time  flew  by  and  soon  "half  hour"  was  called.  "Fif- 
teen minutes"  seemed  only  a  few  seconds  later,  and 
shortly  afterwards  the  stage  manager  stood  at  the  door 
asking  if  Miss  Lane  were  ready  for  "Overture"  to  be 
called.  Martin  answered  that  Miss  Lane  was  ready. 

Then  Brandon  came  in,  and  at  the  sight  of  him  Eve- 
lyn's calmness  forsook  her,  and  she  found  herself  in  the 
grip  of  acute  stage-fright.  She  felt  cold,  sick  and  faint ; 
her  throat  tightened  and  her  mouth  grew  parched. 

"Oh,  C.  B.,  I  feel  awfully  afraid — can  I  do  it — can 
I?" 

"Why,  little  Evelyn,  just  walk  out  and  be  yourself. 
They  are  all  your  friends  out  there — the  Strains  are 
spread  over  two  boxes,  and  the  critics  have  always  liked 
you — you've  nothing  to  fear." 

"I  wish  this  night  were  over." 

"After  the  performance  you  are  to  come  to  supper 
with  a  little  party  of  friendly  souls  to  talk  it  all  over." 

"That  will  be  fine !"  She  had  brightened  under  his 
encouragement  and  when  Martin  tactfully  vanished  from 
the  room  she  crept  into  his  arms  and  gave  him  a  little 
kiss  on  the  cheek. 

"Be  careful  of  my  make-up,"  she  warned.  "You're 
a  dear  C.  B.,  and  I  hope  you'll  never  be  sorry." 

—309— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Stay,  my  little  Evelyn,  and  I'll  do  everything  for  you," 
he  whispered  as  he  held  her  close  and  buried  his  face 
in  her  fragrant  hair. 

The  sound  of  the  Overture  floated  to  them  as  the 
heavy  fire  curtain  rolled  slowly  up  and  the  call  for 
the  first  act  sounded  before  her  door. 

"Good  luck,  and  don't  be  afraid,"  Brandon  said  to 
her  from  the  doorway. 

As  Evelyn  made  her  first  entrance  she  was  greeted 
by  a  burst  of  applause  which  lasted,  it  seemed  to  her, 
an  interminable  time.  She  had  a  fleeting  fear  that  it 
would  drive  the  lines  from  her  memory,  but  when  it 
had  subsided  she  picked  up  her  cue  and  went  glibly  on. 
As  the  play  progressed  her  confidence  grew. 

She  played  with  spirit  and  humour  and  a  sense  of 
values.  Her  range  was  narrow,  but  in  her  scope  her 
work  was  artistic,  and  her  personality  with  its  wistful 
sweetness  came  over  the  footlights  in  a  strong  appeal 
to  the  audience.  They  liked  her,  showing  it  in  their 
laughter  and  applause,  and  on  the  final  curtain  she  was 
forced  to  come  forward  and  utter  a  shy  "I  thank  you." 

After  the  performance  she  removed  her  stage  clothes 
and  make-up,  slipped  into  the  soft  white  crepe  gown  that 
Martin  was  holding,  settled  on  her  head  a  silver-lace  hat, 
pinned  Brandon's  orchids  at  her  waistline,  and  hurried 
out  to  the  waiting  automobile. 

In  her  car  were  Brandon  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Claxton. 
They  congratulated  her  on  her  acting  and  her  gowns 
and  her  company.  Howard  Claxton  was  a  playwright 
who  had  had  several  plays  produced  by  Brandon,  and 
now  he  spoke  of  Evelyn  as  ideal  for  the  girl  in  his 
newest  effort. 

At  Sherry's  they  were  joined  by  Douglas  Henley  and 
his  wife,  and  two  of  Brandon's  brother  managers,  Bill 
Marlowe  and  John  Bryant. 

Supper  was  served  in  a  private  room,  and  the  talk 
—310— 


The  Least  Resistance 

was  chiefly  of  Evelyn's  successful  debut.  They  drank 
her  health,  they  toasted  her  beauty,  and  predicted  a  bril- 
liant future  for  her. 

Flushed  with  success  and  stimulated  by  the  champagne, 
Evelyn  made  a  little  speech,  in  which  she  expressed  her 
gratitude  for  their  approval  and  turning  to  Brandon 
thanked  him  with  shining  eyes  for  his  faith  in  her 
and  the  golden  opportunity  he  had  given  her.  This 
was  the  stroke  that  made  the  evening  complete. 

And  so  Evelyn  became  a  star!  The  play  was  not 
an  important  contribution  to  dramatic  literature,  no  great 
new  actress  had  suddenly  flashed  on  an  eager  public 
as  in  the  case  of  Mary  Leighton,  but  as  a  critic  in  a 
morning  paper  remarked :  "Youth,  and  beauty,  and  per- 
sonality have  again  demonstrated  that  they  are  potent 
factors  in  the  theatre." 

Other  critics  were  equally  kind,  and  "Millicent's  Little 
Mistake"  settled  down  for  a  run.  Evelyn  was  inter- 
viewed, and  photographed.  Her  face  grew  familiar  to 
the  patrons  of  news-stands  and  readers  of  small-town 
papers.  She  was  asked  to  address  clubs,  to  give  advice 
to  girls  wanting  to  go  on  the  stage;  samples  of  soaps 
and  face  powders  and  perfumes  were  sent  her  asking 
her  in  return  for  letters  of  recommendation. 

She  received  numerous  begging  letters,  asking  for 
everything  from  her  autograph  to  help  in  raising  the 
mortgage  "on  the  old  home"  in  Virginia.  Her  father 
wrote,  enclosing  a  clipping  from  the  Claysville  Press.  It 
contained  fulsome  words  of  praise  for  Kentucky's  fair 
daughter  who  had  achieved  fame  in  the  great  city. 
Claysville  regarded  her  with  pride  and  urged  her  to 
return  to  them  for  a  visit. 

Several  leading  citizens  of  the  town,  who  were  in 
New  York  on  business  or  pleasure,  called  at  the  theatre 
to  see  her.  She  met  them  graciously,  and  sent  them 
away  filled  with  the  idea  of  her  greatness  and  her  charm. 


The  Least  Resistance 

Two  brilliant  months  swept  by.  Evelyn  had  invitations 
from  old  friends  and  new  admirers,  the  Strains  par- 
ticularly urging  her  to  accept  their  hospitality,  but  here 
Brandon  drew  the  line. 

"It's  one  of  his  tricks  to  use  his  wife  for  a  blind — 
let  them  alone.  She'd  have  you  marching  in  a  suffrage 
parade,  and  he — he's  not  fit  for  you  to  know." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  them,"  Evelyn  replied;  "she's  so 
sad,  and  he  is  such  an  ugly,  gross  creature,  and  no 
human  being  could  hate  the  ugly  and  the  gross  more 
than  I  do." 

He  smiled  indulgently  and  Evelyn  seated  herself  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair  to  show  him  some  of  the  begging 
letters  she  had  brought  home  from  the  theatre  last 
night. 

It  was  a  bright,  cold  November  afternoon  and  Bran- 
don had  stopped  on  his  way  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  brother 
manager  who  was  recuperating  from  a  serious  illness 
in  a  seaside  hotel. 

"It  will  be  fine  driving  on  the  Island  this  afternoon, 
I  wish  you  could  come  along,  little  Evelyn,  but  discre- 
tion— discretion — it's  a  dreary  word!"  he  finished  with 
a  laugh. 

"And  such  a  humbug  of  a  word,"  Evelyn  answered. 
"C.  B.,"  she  went  on  more  seriously,  "how  long  is  'Milli- 
cent'  going  to  live?" 

"Why,  she's  only  two  months  old,"  he  said  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"I  know,  but  she  isn't  making  money " 

"I  scarcely  expected  it.  One  always  loses  money  on 
a  new  star — we  expect  that,  but  we  make  it  back." 

"But  I  don't  like  you  to  lose  money  on  me." 

"You  foolish,  little  business  woman,"  he  said,  drawing 

her  across  the  arm  of  the  chair  to  a  secure  place  on 

his  knee.    "You  know,  I  often  wonder  what  would  have 

become  of  you  if  I  hadn't  been  so  lucky  as  to  find  you." 

—312— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"I  found  you,"  she  insisted. 

"Whichever  way,  it  was  what  should  have  been.  Now, 
don't  you  worry,  we  are  going  to  run  until  after  Christ- 
mas, then  perhaps  you'll  make  a  short  tour — say  Bos- 
ton, Washington,  Baltimore,  and  a  few  others — and  in 
the  spring  we'll  try  out  another  play.  I've  got  one  called 
'The  Case  of  Maizie  Vaughn'  for  you — it'll  give  you  a 
chance  to  act — really  act.  Wouldn't  you  like  that?" 

"Yes,  very  much,  but  I  do  wish  this  had  caught 
on " 

"Now,  you  are  not  to  fret  about  that — it  isn't  going 
to  ruin  us.  We've  got  to  build  you  up  a  following,  ad- 
vertise you " 

"I  think  you  have " 

"I've  just  begun ;  if  we  stopped  now,  all  that  has  gone 
before  would  be  wasted — the  public  forgets  very  quickly. 
But  they'll  know  you  by  the  time  we  are  through.  I'll 
spend  every  cent  to  make  you,  my  little  Evelyn." 

"You  great,  big,  wonderful,  generous  C.  B. !" 

"I  love  you,"  he  whispered ;  "love  you — adore " 

The  words  became  incoherent.  His  arms  tightened  about 
her.  Her  head  drooped  on  his  shoulder  and  her  soft 
cheek  nestled  against  his. 

"I  love  you,  C.  B.,"  she  breathed. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  it  comforted  her  somewhat 
to  remember  how  happy  her  words  had  made  him. 

Charles  Brandon  was  killed  late  that  afternoon  in  an 
automobile  accident  on  Long  Island.  At  a  dangerous 
curve  his  motor  collided  with  a  heavy  auto  truck,  and 
he  and  the  chauffeur  were  thrown  from  the  car.  Bran- 
don was  dead  when  they  reached  him,  the  chauffeur  lived 
several  hours. 

They  telephoned  Evelyn  the  news  from  the  theatre, 
and  added  that  there  would  be  no  performance  that 
evening. 

—313— 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

NEVER  had  life  seemed  to  Evelyn  more  unreal,  more 
to  partake  of  the  texture  of  a  dream,  than  during 
the  days  which  followed  Brandon's  tragic  death. 

A  brief  note  signed  by  Carl  Hunter  came,  saying  that 
the  theatre  would  remain  dark  until  further  notice.  For 
any  knowledge  of  what  had  happened  she  had  to  depend 
on  the  newspapers.  Here  she  learned  that  he  was  to  be 
buried  on  Saturday,  and  that  the  whole  of  his  fortune 
went  to  his  widow,  except  for  a  few  bequests  to  charity 
and  old  employees. 

Mrs.  Brandon  was  an  invalid,  and  her  affairs  were 
in  the  hands  of  her  brother.  Through  him  she  would 
conduct  her  husband's  business  until  the  close  of  the 
season,  when  she  hoped  to  sell  out  and  go  to  Paris 
to  live. 

"Millicent's  Little  Mistake"  was  to  be  permanently 
withdrawn,  as  it  had  been  losing  money  for  weeks. 
In  this  announcement  Evelyn  saw  the  hand  of  Carl 
Hunter. 

The  evening  this  appeared  she  had  a  visit  from  Paul 
Herbert,  an  English  actor  who  had  been  her  leading 
man.  He  came  to  see  if  he  could  be  of  any  service, 
and  incidentally  to  know  if  she  were  going  to  make 
any  fight  to  continue  "Millicent."  Brandon  had  promised 
him  a  season  out  of  it,  though  his  contract  contained 
the  usual  two  weeks'  notice  clause. 

Evelyn  could  offer  him  no  hope,  since  she  had  never 
had  a  contract  with  Brandon,  not  since  her  very  first 
engagement  in  "The  Holdover."  All  arrangements  be- 
tween them  had  been  verbal,  and  even  had  she  had 
—314— 


The  Least  Resistance 

a  contract  with  the  Brandon  firm  that  would  hold  even 
after  his  death,  she  was  in  no  condition  to  press  it. 

The  bare  thought  of  an  interview  with  Carl  Hunter, 
of  watching  his  malicious  eyes  and  his  cynical  mouth, 
made  her  quiver  with  repulsion.  During  Brandon's  life, 
whenever  their  paths  crossed,  he  had  not  been  able  to 
conceal  his  dislike,  and  now  that  he  was  in  authority, 
she  knew  that  he  would  spare  her  no  slight  or  insult. 

But,  apart  from  a  shrinking  from  contact  with  Hun- 
ter, Evelyn  gave  little  thought  to  her  future.  She  was 
too  stunned  to  care  much  what  happened.  The  horror 
of  Brandon's  end  was  with  her  day  and  night.  He  had 
parted  from  her  hale  and  happy,  full  of  plans  for  her 
career.  Three  hours  later  he  was  lying  by  the  roadside — 
dead.  So  much  strength,  so  much  purpose  and  power 
blown  out  as  a  candle  in  the  wind. 

At  times  it  seemed  as  though  it  were  all  a  mistake — 
a  dream  from  which  she  would  wake  with  a  shudder 
of  relief.  She  caught  herself  listening  for  the  faint 
buzz  over  the  front  door,  for  the  ring  of  the  telephone, 
for  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

She  made  no  effort  to  see  him,  had  no  desire  to 
attend  the  funeral,  which  was  private,  owing  to  Mrs. 
Brandon's  health.  She  had  been  so  close  to  him  that 
staying  away  seemed  disloyal,  but  Carl  Hunter  was  in 
charge,  and  there  would  be  no  welcome  for  her.  Nor 
had  she  any  wish  to  go ;  at  present  there  was  only  one 
great  wish  in  her  heart,  and  that  was  to  shut  out  the 
picture  of  Brandon  lying  cold  and  lifeless  by  the  shat- 
tered automobile. 

Had  Evelyn  been  forced  to  go  on  with  her  work,  the 
tragedy  would  not  have  been  so  disastrous  in  its  effect 
on  her.  But  through  the  long,  idle  days  she  wandered 
from  room  to  room  or  sat  for  hours  before  the  window 
which  looked  out  over  the  Square,  brooding  over  the 
ghastly  end  of  her  happiness. 

—315— 


The  Least  Resistance 

The  nights  were  worse.  The  dark  was  filled  with 
terror.  Sensitive  nerves  twitched  and  ached  until  she 
was  driven  to  the  solace  of  a  sleeping  powder.  The 
next  morning  there  was  a  profound  lassitude  and  heavy 
pumping  of  the  heart  that  warned  her  how  great  was 
the  price  she  paid  for  sleep. 

Four  days  after  Brandon  was  buried,  she  received 
a  letter  from  the  office  with  a  check  for  six  hundred 
dollars  enclosed.  It  stated  that,  in  view  of  the  sudden 
termination  of  the  season,  Mrs.  Brandon  wished  every 
member  of  the  company  to  be  given  two  weeks'  salary. 
And  added  that  such  of  Miss  Lane's  personal  effects  as 
were  in  the  dressing  room  were  held  subject  to  her 
orders. 

Evelyn  sent  Martin  to  pack  up  her  things.  Then  she 
re-read  the  letter  and  looked  at  the  check. 

Dismissed !  She  who  had  been  Brandon's  love,  "his 
priceless  possession,"  dismissed  with  a  circular  letter 
and  a  check  for  six  hundred  dollars. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days  the  house  had  grown  so  in- 
tolerable to  Evelyn,  and  her  vitality  so  low  from  the 
excessive  use  of  drugs,  that  she  decided  to  leave  Martin 
in  charge  of  the  apartment  and  to  run  down  to  Atlantic 
City.  The  change,  she  hoped,  would  help  her  back  to 
a  normal  condition  of  mind  and  body. 

She  wanted  to  be  alone — away  from  the  watchful  care 
of  Martin — away  from  all  the  memories  that  the  apart- 
ment stood  for.  She  had  to  make  plans  for  the  future, 
but  here  where  every  object  spoke  of  Brandon  she  could 
not  think  beyond  the  catastrophe  that  had  robbed  her 
of  protection  and  position. 

She  arrived  in  Atlantic  City  on  a  clear,  cold  afternoon. 
The  wind  swept  in  from  the  ocean,  crisp  and  life-giving. 
The  sun  shone  bravely  on  the  boardwalk  and  the  glass- 
enclosed  parlours  of  the  hotel. 

The  noisy  summer  crowd  had  long  since  vanished, 
—316— 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  its  place  was  taken  by  a  health-seeking,  rest-desiring 
lot  of  men  and  women.  They  walked  briskly  the  length 
of  the  boardwalk  or  sat  about  wrapped  in  furs,  drinking 
in  the  invigorating  salt  air. 

The  week-end  brought  gay  motor  parties  from  Phila- 
delphia and  other  neighbouring  cities.  Then  there  was 
music,  gay  dinner  parties,  and  dancing.  All  the  familiar 
gaiety  filled  Evelyn  with  a  dumb,  aching  sadness. 

But  for  the  most  part  her  spirits  were  more  normal 
than  they  had  been  since  Brandon's  death.  She  walked, 
rested  in  the  sun  parlour,  ate  simply,  and  slept  without 
the  use  of  drugs.  At  night  her  windows  were  wide 
open,  and  the  roar  and  boom  of  the  sea  with  their  sooth- 
ing rhythm  quieted  her  nerves,  and  the  salt  air  brought 
on  a  delicious  drowsiness  that  soon  passed  into  a  deep, 
dreamless  sleep. 

One  morning  as  she  started  for  her  walk,  crossing 
the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  she  heard  her  name  called  and 
turned  to  see  the  large,  overdressed  figure  of  Mr. 
Lawrence  Strain  bearing  down  on  her.  His  hands  were 
outstretched,  and  his  face  rising  above  the  fur  collar 
of  his  coat  was  composed  into  a  look  of  solicitude. 

"This  is  a  surprise,"  he  said.    "I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"Thank  you,"  she  answered,  wanting  to  run  away 
from  him. 

"I'm  terribly  sorry  about  our  friend — those  accidents 
are  awful."  He  paused,  feeling  the  situation  awkward. 

"Yes,  it  was  dreadful." 

"That  was  a  bad  thing,  the  closing  of  your  play — I 
felt  like  I  wanted  to  dip  into  theatricals  and  take  it 
over — it  was  too  good  a  thing  to  close  up."  He  was 
trying  to  speak  casually,  and  at  the  same  time  make 
her  aware  that  he  was  a  very  rich  man,  who  would 
gladly  help  an  attractive  young  woman  out  of  her 
difficulty. 

—317— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"I'm  afraid  there's  no  money  to  be  made  out  of  'Milli- 
cent' "  she  said. 

"Why  must  we  all  make  money?" 

"Oh,  we  must  do  that,  you  know!  How  is  Mrs. 
Strain?"  she  asked,  to  change  the  subject. 

"Oh,  all  right ;  gone  off  to  some  suffrage  convention," 
he  answered  with  a  trace  of  heavy  contempt  in  his  voice. 
"Say,  won't  you  take  lunch  with  me?  It  would  be  a 
real  favour.  We  could  talk  things  over." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Strain,  but  I  couldn't  to-day.  I 
came  down  here  for  a  rest.  The  little  I  eat  is  served 
in  my  room." 

"Well,  that's  too  bad — that's  no  way  to  get  well.  I've 
got  my  car  here,  won't  you  come  for  a  spin  this  after- 
noon? It  would  do  you  good."  His  lynx  eyes  peered 
out  at  her  between  folds  of  fat  with  the  old,  covetous 
admiration. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said  nervously,  "but  I'm  wait- 
ing for  a  wire.  If  it  comes,  I  may  have  to  go  home  this 
afternoon."  She  held  out  her  hand.  "I'm  glad  to  have 
seen  you,  and  do  remember  me  to  Mrs.  Strain." 

"I'm  sorry  you  won't  let  me  do  some  little  thing  for 
you.  Here's  my  card,  and  if  at  any  time  you  need  any — 
any  backing — you  know  you  artists  do  sometimes,"  he 
said  with  heavy  playfulness,  "just  let  me  know.  I'll  do 
anything  I  can,  Miss  Lane." 

"Thank  you  again,"  she  said,  taking  the  card.  But 
as  she  passed  on  she  crumpled  it  in  her  hand.  "The  old 
beast!  The  hideous  old  beast!  He  came  down  here 
to  find  me — as  if — oh !" 

But  several  times  during  the  afternoon  the  thought  of 
the  ride  he  had  suggested  occurred  to  her.  It  would 
be  pleasant  spinning  along  a  smooth  road  in  a  luxurious 
car  with  the  wind  stinging  the  face,  and  filling  the  lungs 
with  health-giving  air — pleasanter  than  sitting  by  a  win- 
—318— 


The  Least  Resistance 

dow  looking  out  over  the  unchanging,  restless  sea  with 
sad,  sad  thoughts  creeping  into  the  mind. 

The  next  day  Evelyn  returned  to  New  York,  and 
Martin  declared  that  the  week  by  the  sea  had  done  won- 
ders for  her.  The  deep  shadows  about  the  eyes  were 
gone,  she  was  not  so  nervous,  and  there  was  a  return 
of  appetite  and  interest  that  was  encouraging. 

That  evening  she  set  to  work  resolutely  to  straighten 
out  her  financial  affairs,  and  to  plan  her  future  cam- 
paign. During  her  absence  December  had  been  ush- 
ered in,  and  with  it  had  come  a  number  of  bills.  Rent, 
taxi  hire,  grocers,  butchers,  and  a  last  month's  florist 
bill. 

In  all  she  owed  three  hundred  dollars,  and  Martin's 
wages  were  due:  an  expensive  apartment  to  keep  up, 
a  maid,  luxurious  tastes  to  satisfy,  and  against  this  she 
placed  her  resources.  There  was  six  hundred  dollars 
in  the  bank,  and  five  hundred  left  of  the  check  sent 
her  by  Carl  Hunter. 

Evelyn  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  situation  was 
not  so  desperate  as  she  had  feared.  Surely  before  the 
eight  hundred  dollars  that  remained  after  her  debts  were 
paid  were  gone  she  would  have  another  engagement. 

But  she  was  reckoning  without  any  real  knowledge 
of  the  effect  of  Brandon's  death,  and  more  particularly 
of  the  curt  dismissal  which  had  come  from  Carl  Hunter. 
It  had,  in  the  slang  of  the  day,  "broken  her  nerve." 
The  thought  of  the  theatre,  of  acting,  of  her  old  asso- 
ciates, was  accompanied  by  mental  anguish  and  acute 
physical  distress. 

Again  and  again  she  tried  to  write  letters  placing 
her  services  at  the  disposal  of  other  managers.  Mar- 
lowe had  always  been  friendly  and  flattering,  he  might 
have  something  for  her,  and  there  were  others  to  whom 
she  might  apply.  But  the  letter  begun,  a  violent  spell 
of  depression  laid  hold  of  her;  the  pen  was  dropped, 

—319— 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  a  sedative  resorted  to  to  quiet  her  quivering  nerves. 

A  number  of  her  co-workers  had  written  to  Evelyn 
after  the  closing  of  her  play,  and  the  reading  of  each 
letter  had  been  an  ordeal.  She  was  abnormally  afraid 
of  some  tactless  word,  but  the  letters  had  been  kind, 
and  some  from  women  friends  even  tender.  One  from 
little  Ann  Dwight,  the  ingenue  with  the  old  Hartwell 
company,  had  touched  her,  and  one  lonely  afternoon  she 
telephoned  and  asked  Ann  to  come  down. 

Ann  arrived  shortly  afterwards  dressed  in  the  latest 
mode  from  her  dainty  high-heeled  bronze  slippers  to 
the  military  cap  perched  at  a  coquettish  angle  on  her 
red  curls.  At  their  last  meeting  Ann's  hair  had  been 
brown,  but  the  new  red  shade  was  becoming,  and  espe- 
cially effective  in  the  green-and-bronze  costume.  She 
carried  an  enormous  muff  and  wore  a  great  bunch  of 
violets. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  telephoned  for  me,"  Ann  said  with 
the  first  kiss.  "I  was  just  heartbroken  when  they  closed 
up  your  play,  but  they  will  send  it  out  again,  I'm  sure — 
it  was  fine,  and  you  were  a  love  in  it." 

Evelyn  had  felt  herself  wince  under  Ann's  opening 
speech,  but  as  she  rattled  on  it  was  evident  that,  what- 
ever theatrical  gossip  she  had  heard,  none  of  it  was  to 
sift  through  to  her  friend. 

f'And  what  are  you  doing,  Ann?"  Evelyn  asked  when 
they  were  seated. 

"Nothing,  but  having  a  perfectly  glorious  time.  I  was 
in  'Welcome  Home,'  but  it  lasted  three  weeks,  and  since 
then  I've  been  at  liberty!" 

"I  thought  it  went  to  Chicago " 

"Oh!  it  did,  but  I  didn't  want  to  go.  I  hate  Chicago 
in  the  winter  time — the  wind  is  awful." 

Evelyn  smiled  and  rang  for  Martin  to  bring  in  the 
tea.  "So  you  stayed  here." 

"Yes,  and  I  mean  to  stay.  Going  on  the  road  doesn't 
—320— 


The  Least  Resistance 

get  you  anything.  For  years  I  was  the  pet  of  all  the 
number  two  companies,  and  I  couldn't  get  more  than 
seventy-five  dollars  to  save  my  life,  and  even  then 
it  was  a  long  time  between  jobs." 

"Well,  it  is  nice  that  you  can  stay  here  and  wait  for 
something  worth  while." 

"Yes,  I  wouldn't  go  away  for  a  farm.  I  have  a  peach 
of  a  place.  A  great  big  studio,  and  two  little  rooms  off 
it.  I  can  give  darling  old  parties — you  must  come  to  my 
Christmas  one." 

"But  aren't  studios  always  cold?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Not  mine.  It  looks  over  the  park,  and  is  beautifully 
heated." 

"So  you  really  don't  care  whether  you  act  or  not?" 
Evelyn  asked  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  yes,  if  I  can  get  something  good.  I  saw  our  old 
friend,  Tilton,  to-day,  but  it  was  another  one  of  those 
Chicago  offers,  and  so  I  turned  it  down.  He  was  quite 
peeved  with  me,  and  told  me  that  I  had  a  poor  idea 
of  getting  on  in  'my  profession/  Yes,  I  ought  to  let 
Tilton  direct  my  career,  and  I'd  be  a  huge  success,  like 
Miss  Winnie  Hartwell." 

"She  has  a  lot  of  bad  luck " 

"Some  of  us  would  say  she's  done  a  lot  of  bad  acting, 
but  you  always  were  charitable,  Evelyn." 

"I  have  to  be — I  have  to  ask  for  so  much,"  Evelyn 
said  wistfully. 

"No  such  thing — you  are  a  darling  actress.  Oh,  Eve- 
lyn," she  burst  out  with  a  sudden  change  of  thought, 
"you  must  see  my  Tommy — he's  the  most  adorable 
thing!" 

"Cat,  dog,  or  mere  man?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"Oh,  a  love  of  a  man,  or  rather  he's  a  boy.  He's  only 
twenty-four — and  say,  Evelyn,  when  he's  about  remem- 
ber I  am  just  twenty-three,"  Ann  said  with  a  wise  smile. 

—321— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Well,  you  look  eighteen  in  that  charming  frock 
and " 

"My  red  curls,"  Ann  said,  running  to  a  mirror.  "Yes, 
they  help  a  lot.  You  know,  Evelyn,  I  had  an  awful  up- 
hill time  until  I  changed  the  colour  of  my  hair.  The 
morning  after  it  happened  I  was  riding  up  in  an  elevator 
and  old  Ike  Steinberg  was  the  only  other  person  in  the 
car.  I  had  been  trying  to  see  him  for  two  months,  but 
he  would  have  none  of  me.  Well,  this  time  he  looked 
me  over,  and  seeing  approval  in  his  eyes,  I  shook  my 
curls  at  him,  and  lisped  out:  'Mr.  Steinberg,  I  was  just 
going  up  to  see  you.'  And  that's  how  I  got  my  job  with 
The  Pace  Setter.' " 

"Oh,  that  is  delicious,  Ann."  And  for  the  first  time 
in  many  weeks  Evelyn  laughed  heartily. 

"Then  I  met  Tommy  at  a  dance  given  by  Janie  Roller, 
and  the  red  curls  got  him.  They  are  here  to  stay." 

"Well,  they  are  most  becoming,  and  I  don't  wonder 
that  you've  made  so  many  hits.  But  do  tell  me  some 
more  about  Tommy — what  is  he — an  actor?" 

"An  actor?  My  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  me?  The 
last  actor-beau  I  had  used  to  let  me  sign  my  own  dinner 
checks  while  he  made  violent  love  to  me !  No,  indeed ; 
Tommy  is  a  real  fellow.  His  father  is  old  John  Black- 
burn, who  has  stacks  of  money." 

"Yes,  I've  heard  of  him." 

"Tommy  is  his  only  son,  and  he's  a  love.  Say,  sup- 
pose you  dine  with  us  to-night — it'll  be  peachy.  He  has 
seen  you  act,  and  liked  you,  and  he'd  be  tickled  to  death 
to  take  out  a  real  live  star." 

"But,  Ann,  I'm  not  going  out  just  now " 

"That's  just  what's  the  matter  with  you !  Sitting  here 
brooding  and  worrying,  making  yourself  all  sad  and 
pale — you  need  to  get  out.  I'll  tell  Tommy  to  come 
for  us  at  four,  and  we  can  take  a  spin  through  the  Park 
in  his  car,  and  then  have  dinner.  You  must  do  it — the 
—322— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Doctor  prescribes  it."     Without  waiting  for  Evelyn  to 
answer,  Ann  tripped  to  the  telephone. 

Evelyn  watched  her  with  interest.  She  remembered 
so  well  the  eager,  insistent  egotism  of  Ann  in  the  Hart- 
well  company.  The  night  Tilton  crushed  her  with  his 
disapproval  of  her  gown.  At  first  she  had  disliked  Ann, 
then  as  she  glimpsed  something  of  the  real  girl  beneath 
the  pretences,  came  to  realise  the  struggle  with  poverty, 
and  the  brave  show  always  made,  she  had  been  softened. 
In  those  days  there  had  been  a  hard,  eager  look  in  her 
eyes,  and  when  she  was  not  on  her  guard,  tense  lines 
showed  about  the  mouth. 

Now  Ann  was  a  pretty,  confident,  well-dressed  little 
person  with  a  shrewd  knowledge  of  the  process  of  "get- 
ting on."  Happiness  had  softened  the  hard  light  in  her 
eyes,  and  thrown  a  veil  of  sweetness  over  the  insistent 
egotism. 

Evelyn  felt  a  decided  curiosity  to  see  the  wonderful 
Tommy  who  had  wrought  the  change — not  for  one  mo- 
ment did  she  attribute  the  change  in  Ann  to  any  other 
source. 

Meanwhile  Ann  was  busy  trying  to  locate  Tommy, 
who  once  on  the  line  declared  that  he  should  be  delighted 
to  call  for  the  girls  at  four.  Should  he  bring  along  an- 
other fellow  ?  Ann  turned  to  Evelyn. 

"No,  just  you  two — please,"  Evelyn  said. 

"Just  us  to-night,  Tommy.  Now  don't  be  late.  Yes, 
you  know  I  do,  silly."  And  with  a  smile  of  conscious 
power  Ann  hung  up  the  receiver. 

The  arrangements  made,  Ann  returned  to  her  cup  of 
tea,  and  began  to  gossip  gaily  of  the  actors  and  actresses 
that  they  both  knew.  For  a  month  Evelyn  had  been  out 
of  touch  with  the  theatre,  and  save  for  the  small  infor- 
mation gleaned  from  the  papers  and  the  dramatic  jour- 
nals, she  knew  nothing  of  the  workings  of  the  Brandon 
office  and  how  it  was  affecting  other  companies. 

—323— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Ann  repeated  in  a  light,  detached  manner  talk  cur- 
rent among  theatrical  people.  Carl  Hunter,  so  the  ru- 
mour ran,  had  always  been  ambitious  to  branch  out  as 
a  manager  and  he  had  prevailed  on  his  sister  to  let  him 
carry  on  the  business  of  the  Brandon  firm. 

"He'll  make  a  fine  job  of  it.  He's  never  been  any- 
thing but  business  manager  of  some  of  C.  B.'s  smaller 
road  shows,  and  a  clerk  in  the  office.  And  he's  got  a 
mean  face — don't  you  think  so?" 

"I  never  liked  him,"  Evelyn  agreed. 

"He'll  grind  the  actor  down  and  cheat  the  public. 
I  predict  that  a  year  from  now  Mrs.  Brandon  will  find 
herself  in  a  fine  lot  of  trouble.  She  thinks  better  of 
brothers  than  I  do !"  Ann  said  with  great  scorn.  "By  the 
way,"  she  said  with  a  sudden  change  of  thought,  "I 
met  a  friend  of  yours  recently." 

"Who?" 

"Bratton  Wayne — met  him  at  the  Waldorf,  seems  he 
likes  to  lunch  there.  He  said  that  Kipling  would  never 
have  written,  'And  never  the  twain  shall  meet,'  if  he'd 
ever  lunched  there.  I  didn't  get  his  meaning " 

"He  is  always  a  little  whimsical,"  Evelyn  put  in. 

"I  don't  think  he  remembered  me,  but  when  I  reminded 
him  of  the  Hartwell  Company,  he  soon  warmed  up,  and 
I  found  out  it  was  to  ask  about  you." 

"You've  a  great,  big  imagination  for  such  a  small 
girl." 

"No  such  thing.  I  know  when  a  man  is  interested — 
I  can  taste  it  in  his  talk.  Why  don't  you  send  him  a 
card,  and  ask  him  to  call?" 

"No,"  Evelyn  said  thoughtfully,  "I  couldn't  do  that. 
Now  I've  got  to  dress  if  I  am  going  with  you.  Can  you 
amuse  yourself  for  a  little  while?" 

"Sure,  run  along.  I'll  look  over  these  magazines. 
Don't  put  on  anything  fancy — I'm  going  just  as  I  am. 
—324— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Tommy  is  a  Bohemian — one  doesn't  have  to  dress  for 
dinner  with  him." 

As  Evelyn  dressed  she  was  surprised  to  find  how 
glad  she  was  that  Ann  had  insisted  on  her  going  out 
with  the  adorable  Tommy.  "I've  got  to  live,"  she  was 
saying  to  herself,  "and  I  might  as  well  begin.  I  won't 
get  anywhere  moping  about  the  house — perhaps  I'll  meet 
people  who  will  do  me  some  good." 

She  slipped  into  a  little  grey  velvet  gown  which  hung 
in  straight  lines  from  the  shoulders,  a  girdle  encircled 
her  hips,  accentuating  their  slenderness.  At  the  throat 
it  was  cut  in  a  deep  square  and  soft  cream  lace  relieved 
its  severeness.  A  grey  cap  with  a  single  drooping 
feather  completed  the  costume.  Its  effective  demure- 
ness  gave  her  something  of  the  appearance  of  a  Quaker 
— a  frail,  lovely  Quaker  lass. 

"What  a  love  of  a  dress,"  Ann  cried  as  Evelyn  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  "and  how  it  suits  you — Paris  ?" 

"Yes — last  summer." 

"It's  perfect!"  She  came  up  and  slipped  her  arm 
about  Evelyn's  waist.  "You  mustn't  look  so  sad — life 
is  wonderful,  and  we  are  meant  to  be  happy." 

"Some  of  us,"  Evelyn  said  with  a  twisted  little  smile. 
"But  I'm  not  sad — it's  just  the  dress.  I  feel  very  happy 
to  go  out  with  you  and  'the  adorable  one.' — Isn't  that  his 
car  now?" 

Ann  dashed  to  the  window.  "It  is — look  at  it.  Isn't 
it  a  peach?  Poor  dear,  he  smashed  his  hand  last  week 
and  can't  run  it." 

Evelyn  joined  her  and  looked  down  on  the  long-bodied 
yellow  car  which  was  drawn  up  at  the  curb. 

"Yes,  it's  a  splendid  one!" 

"And  they  want  me  to  go  to  Chicago !"  Ann  said  with 
great  scorn.  A  moment  later  she  rushed  to  the  door 
to  admit  Tommy. 

—325— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Well,  Tommykins,  you  are  on  time  for  a  change.  I 
want  to  present  you  to  Miss  Lane." 

Tommy  advanced  with  a  long  stride  and  took  Eve- 
lyn's outstretched  hand  in  his  left,  giving  it  such  a 
squeeze  that  she  winced  with  pain. 

"Excuse  my  left,  smashed  my  right  in  a  boxing  match 
last  week.  Awful  glad  to  know  you,  Miss  Lane — heard 
a  lot  about  you  from  Ann." 

"I've  gotten  well  acquainted  with  you  this  afternoon, 
and  I'm  so  glad  you  came  down." 

"Thanks.  The  fire  is  jolly,"  he  said,  stretching  his 
hands  before  the  brightly-burning  logs.  Tommy  was  a 
Yale  athlete,  broad-shouldered,  deep-chested,  a  round, 
pugnacious-looking  head  with  brown  hair  so  well  plas- 
tered down  that  it  seemed  more  like  a  coat  of  paint 
than  hair.  A  good-natured  mouth  and  frank,  boyish 
eyes  without  a  gleam  of  an  intellectual  depth.  He 
seemed  very  young,  something  like  a  big  friendly  puppy 
that  wanted  to  play  all  day  long.  He  made  Evelyn  feel 
intolerably  old. 

"Can  I  give  you  some  tea,"  she  asked,  "or  something 
else — stronger  ?" 

"Tommy  is  very  fond  of  Scotch,"  Ann  chirped  in. 

"Then  it  shall  be  Scotch." 

"Thanks,  awfully — it's  cold  as  blazes  out." 

Evelyn  disappeared  into  the  dining-room,  and  Tommy 
snatched  up  Ann  and  gave  her  a  kiss. 

"How's  the  small  girl  ?"  he  asked  as  he  put  her  down 
and  stood  with  his  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"I'm  fine,  Tommy,  but  what  do  you  think?  I  saw 
Tilton  to-day,  and  he  wanted  me  to  go  to  Chicago  with 
the  Number  Two  'Beat  It.'  It  opens  there  with  a  Christ- 
mas matinee,  and  to  think  I'd  have  to  go  away  from  you 
and  give  up  my  party " 

"Nothing  doing,"  Tommy  said  emphatically ;  "you  are 
going  to  stay  right  along  in  this  little  town.  Say,"  jerk- 
—326— 


The  Least  Resistance 

ing  his  head  towards  the  dining-room,  "she's  some  girl." 

"Yes,"  Ann  whispered  sympathetically;  "it's  too  bad." 

"Say,  why  don't  we  ask  Bruce  along — his  grandmother 
was  a  Quaker."  And  Tommy  laughed  merrily  at  his  own 
joke. 

"Evelyn  hasn't  been  well,  and  she  just  wanted  to  go 
with  us  to-night.  Some  other  time " 

Tommy  went  forward  to  meet  his  hostess,  who  was  ad- 
vancing with  a  tray  holding  the  bottle  of  Scotch  whiskey, 
a  siphon,  and  some  glasses. 

"That's  too  heavy  for  you,"  he  said  as  he  took  it  away 
and  placed  it  on  the  table. 

"Isn't  this  a  cunning  place,  Tommy?"  Ann  asked  as 
Evelyn  made  the  highballs. 

"Sure,  dandy.  Well,  here's  to  you,  Miss  Lane."  He 
raised  his  glass.  "Well,  isn't  anybody  going  to  join 
me?" 

"It's  very  good  Scotch,  Ann,"  Evelyn  said  insinu- 
atingly. 

"Well,  a  small  one.  I  don't  drink  much — it  makes  me 
fat— ugh!" 

"I'll  join  the  party,  too,"  Evelyn  said  as  she  mixed 
a  third. 

After  this  Tommy  helped  the  two  girls  into  their  fur 
coats,  and  pulled  Ann's  collar  about  her  ears,  warning 
them  that  it  was  "cold  as  virtue  outside,"  and  he  laughed 
in  his  boyish  way  at  this  piece  of  daring  wit. 

It  was  cold,  but  as  the  long  yellow  automobile  turned 
on  Fifth  Avenue  and  sped  up  the  smooth,  glistening 
street,  Evelyn  felt  that  there  had  never  been  such  an 
invigorating,  exhilarating  sting  to  the  air,  never  had 
the  early  winter  twilight  been  so  pregnant  with  joy. 

The  three  were  on  the  rear  seat,  Ann  between  Tommy 
and  Evelyn.  A  great  fur  robe  was  tucked  about  them, 
and  only  patches  of  faces  were  visible  over  fur  collars 
and  beneath  fur  caps. 

—327— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Farther  up  the  avenue  they  ran  into  the  block  of  the 
late  afternoon  traffic.  The  chauffeur  brought  his  car 
into  the  long  line  and  advanced  or  retarded  to  the  po- 
lice whistle. 

"The  avenue's  a  bore  this  time  of  day.  Turn  off  to 
Madison,  Louis!"  Tommy  called. 

"Oh,  no!"  Ann  cut  in.  "Let's  stay  here,  we  don't 
mind  going  slow,  it's  nice  to  see  the  people.  Look,  Eve- 
lyn, there's  our  dear  friend  Winnie — in  that  brown 
limousine." 

Evelyn  looked  across  to  the  line  of  automobiles 
headed  downtown,  and  there  in  a  closed  car  under  a 
hat  decked  with  yellow  plumes  was  Miss  Hartwell.  On 
her  lap  rested  a  Pomeranian  dog.  It  was  the  same 
Winnie — shallow,  hard,  over-dressed,  and  discontented. 
As  the  two  cars  passed  she  bowed  slightly  in  answer 
to  Ann's  cheerful  nod. 

"I  made  her  see  me,"  Ann  said;  "now  she  can  tell 
Tilton,  and  he'll  want  me  to  go  to  Chicago  more  than 
ever." 

"She's  some  politician,  this  girl,"  Tommy  said  with 
great  pride  to  Evelyn. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  shrill  whistle,  and  the  line 
moved  on  for  several  blocks.  Ann  slipped  her  arm 
through  Tommy's  and  buried  both  hands  in  her  muff. 
By  this  he  was  reminded  that  she  had  not  forgotten 
him,  though  she  gave  her  attention  to  the  passing  auto- 
mobiles and  the  hurrying  throngs  on  the  sidewalks. 

"Why,  they  let  us  get  by  with  five  blocks,"  Tommy 
said,  but  even  as  he  spoke  the  whistle  blew  and  the  car 
came  to  a  stop. 

"Oh,  look,  there's  Bruce  Winthrop !"  And  Ann  waved 
her  white-gloved  hand  frantically. 

"Where?"  Tommy  asked. 

"Over  there  on  the  corner — he  just  came  from  Sher- 
—328— 


The  Least  Resistance 

ry's.  He  is  talking  to  that  young  Englishman  we  met 
last  night.  Oh,  he  sees  us !" 

She  had  attracted  the  attention  of  Bruce,  who  quitted 
his  companion  and  wound  his  way  in  between  the  ma- 
chines until  he  reached  Tommy's  car. 

"Let's  take  him  along  with  us,"  Tommy  had  been 
saying  to  Evelyn.  "He's  a  good  sport,  you'll  like  him." 

"Hello,  people!"  Bruce  called  out  as  he  came  up  and 
stepped  on  the  running  board.  "Where  you  bound  ?" 

"For  a  spin  and  dinner,"  Ann  chirped. 

"Lucky  people!  I've  been  teaing  with  the  English- 
man, and  some  other  ladies,"  Bruce  answered.  He  was 
squeezing  Ann's  arm  in  friendly  greeting,  but  his  eyes 
were  on  Evelyn.  The  next  moment  he  was  lifting  his 
hat  in  answer  to  the  introduction. 

"Say,  why  don't  you  take  me  along — I'm  bored  to 
death!" 

"Can  he  come,  Miss  Lane?"  Tommy  asked. 

"I'll  be  good,  Miss  Lane,"  Bruce  promised. 

"I'm  no  stern  parent  that  wants  to  keep  you  at  home," 
she  answered. 

The  whistle  sounded  again,  and  Bruce  flung  open  the 
door  and  seated  himself  by  Louis. 

"My,  this  wind!  Haven't  you  a  cap  in  one  of  those 
pockets — there's  generally  one  in  the  left  side." 

"Here  it  is,"  Tommy  said  as  he  dived  for  it,  and 
tossed  it  over  to  Bruce. 

"This  is  great,"  the  other  answered  as  he  slipped 
it  on,  and  dropped  his  hat  in  the  body  of  the  car.  "I 
throw  my  hat  at  your  feet,  young  Ann  Dwight." 

"It  would  be  more  interesting  if  it  were  your  heart," 
she  pouted. 

"You've  been  stepping  on  that  for  years."  And  they 
all  laughed. 

The  coming  of  Bruce  added  a  new  note  of  gaiety  to 
the  crowd.  He  made  them  laugh  with  his  description 

—329— 


The  Least  Resistance 

of  the  tea;  he  teased  Ann,  rallied  Tommy,  and  looked 
often  at  Evelyn. 

He  was  curious  about  her ;  her  face  was  familiar,  but 
not  having  heard  her  first  name,  he  did  not  connect 
her  with  the  Evelyn  Lane  whose  starring  venture  had 
terminated  so  tragically. 

They  circled  the  Park,  and  passed  out,  crossing  to 
Riverside  Drive,  working  out  of  the  congested  district 
to  a  comparatively  free  stretch  of  roadway.  Louis 
heightened  his  speed,  and  for  a  while  all  talk  ceased. 

A  clear,  cold  night  had  settled  over  the  city.  There 
was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  were  out,  twinkling  frostily 
in  the  heavens.  The  great  blocks  of  apartment  build- 
ings on  the  right  were  bright  with  lights ;  on  the  left, 
below  the  embankment,  the  dark  Hudson  flowed ;  across, 
gleamed  the  lamps  on  the  Jersey  shore.  They  overtook 
a  night  boat,  which  flashed  its  searchlight  across  their 
path. 

Wrapped  in  fur,  covered  with  the  warm  robe,  held 
firmly  in  her  corner  by  the  pressure  of  Ann's  body, 
Evelyn  gave  herself  up  to  the  beauty  of  the  night. 

She  felt  free,  alive,  full  of  confidence  and  hope.  Life 
had  not  stopped  for  her.  She  was  still  young,  lovely, 
and  she  had  power.  The  heights  gained  were  not  to 
be  lost.  Never  had  she  faced  the  future  so  bravely  as 
on  this  cold,  starlit  night. 

"I'm  starving!"  Ann  called  out  suddenly.  "Let's  stay 
up  here  for  dinner  instead  of  going  back  to  town." 

"Suits  me,"  Tommy  answered.  "Stop  at  the  Inn, 
Louis." 

"I  see  the  lights  now — goody!  I  hope  they'll  have 
some  of  those  delicious  ducks  we  had  last  time,  and  some 
sparkling  Burgundy — that  doesn't  make  me  fat!" 

"You  are  putting  on  weight  daily,  Ann;  if  you  don't 
look  out,  a  side  show  will  steal  you." 

"I  think  you  are  perfectly  horrid,  Bruce  Winthrop. 
—330- 


The  Least  Resistance 

I  haven't  gained  a  pound  in  six  months.  Here's  the  Inn, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you  any  more,"  Ann  said 
with  an  emphatic  nod. 

Tommy  threw  off  the  robe,  and  jumped  out  to  assist 
the  girls.  They  hurried  up  the  steps  and  through  the 
glass  door  into  the  warmth  of  the  Inn. 

Ann  and  Evelyn  retired  for  rehabilitation,  and  over 
the  powder  puff  Ann  gossiped :  "Bruce  makes  me  cross 
sometimes,  talking  about  my  getting  fat,  and  I  never 
weighed  more  than  one  hundred  and  twenty  in  my 
life." 

"He's  just  teasing,"  Evelyn  said  consolingly. 

"I  know,  but  Tommy  is  awfully  influenced  by  Bruce, 
and  I  don't  want  him  to  get  the  idea  that  I'm  gaining." 

"Who  is  Bruce  Winthrop — the  son  of  the  old  man?" 
Evelyn  asked. 

"Yes,  the  son  of  old  Bruce  Winthrop  who  owns  acres 
of  New  York.  He  is  really  an  awfully  good  sort.  Not 
a  bit  spoiled  by  his  money,  and  the  women  who  run 
after  him." 

"I  thought  he  was  to  be  married — the  papers " 

"Oh,  the  papers  marry  him  off  every  other  day.  He 
doesn't  care  much  for  girls — that  is,  seriously.  He  runs 

around  a  lot,  but "  Ann  shrugged  her  shoulders  in 

an  expressive  way. 

When  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  Evelyn  looked 
with  new  interest  at  the  heir  of  the  Winthrop  millions. 
He  was  smaller  than  Tommy,  not  so  tall,  nor  so  broad 
of  shoulder,  but  his  head  was  better  shaped,  and  his 
eyes  keener.  He  had  a  flexible,  good-natured  mouth, 
and  a  rapid  way  of  speaking  that  made  him  seem  cleverer 
than  he  was.  He  liked  to  fancy  that  life  was  a  bore,  and 
he  was  a  little  intolerant  and  superior  in  his  attitude 
towards  women,  as  became  a  man  of  the  world. 

He  met  Evelyn's  veiled  interest  with  equally  veiled 
curiosity.  Tommy  had  revealed  her  identity,  and  Bruce, 

—331— 


The  Least  Resistance 

who  see-sawed  between  debutantes  and  chorus  girls, 
found  the  proximity  of  a  legitimate  star  a  novel  and 
pleasing  experience.  How  quaintly  she  was  gotten  up; 
what  other  girl  would  have  thought  of  those  clothes? 
What  other  girl  could  have  worn  them  and  not  looked 
affected?  But  they  just  suited  her.  She  was  a  frail- 
looking  creature — awfully  pale,  rather  a  pretty  pallor, 
and  her  eyes  were  nice.  Then  he  wondered  what  im- 
pression he  had  made  on  her — as  a  rule,  girls  liked  him, 
or  at  least  they  made  a  fuss  over  him.  So  far  she 
hadn't  seemed  especially  aware  of  his  presence. 

The  dinner  progressed  merrily  from  the  oysters, 
through  the  soup  to  the  ducks,  which  justified  Ann's  an- 
ticipations. 

"Duck  hunting — that's  good  sport,"  Tommy  said; 
"used  to  go  down  to  the  Chesapeake  every  fall " 

"Why  go  down  there  and  get  all  cold  and  dirty  when 
you  can  get  such  delicious  ducks  right  here?"  Ann  put 
in,  and  Tommy  laughed  at  her  simplicity. 

Evelyn  had  little  to  say.  What  could  she  say  to  these 
gay  young  people?  Fortunately  they  made  no  demands 
on  her.  Their  talk  was  without  direction,  and  without 
continuity.  It  reminded  her  of  a  game  she  had  played 
in  her  childhood  called,  "Hop,  Skip  and  Jump."  The 
final  "jump"  was  a  laugh  from  Tommy,  a  giggle  from 
Ann,  and  a  lazy  smile  from  Bruce,  and  immediately  the 
subject  was  changed. 

But  though  she  was  silent,  she  seemed,  through  her 
gift  for  listening,  quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  occasion,  and 
in  reality  she  was  not  in  the  least  annoyed  or  bored. 

The  dinner  was  delicious,  the  wine  excellent;  there 
were  hurrying  waiters,  the  distant  music,  other  gay  par- 
ties dining  close  by,  and  then  the  pointed  courtesy  paid 
her  as  the  guest  of  honour. 

With  the  progress  of  the  dinner  her  spirits  rose,  and 
across  her  wine  glass  she  smiled  at  Bruce  with  deeply 
—332— 


The  Least  Resistance 

appealing  eyes,  and  spoke  his  name  with  a  liquid  sweet- 
ness that  was  flattering.  And  under  the  influence  of  the 
wine  and  her  eyes  he  dropped  his  flippant  gaiety,  and 
became  boyish  and  charming. 

"Will  you  let  me  come  to  see  you  some  time?"  he 
asked  as  they  stood  on  the  porch  waiting  for  Louis  to 
bring  up  the  car. 

"Sunday  afternoons  I  am  home." 
"Do  I  have  to  come  with  a  lot  of  people?" 
"I'm  seeing  very  few  people  just  now — only  a  favoured 
few,"  she  said  softly. 

He  took  her  arm  to  help  her  down  the  steps  and  lifted 
her  gently  into  the  car.  At  the  end  of  their  journey  he 
saw  her  to  her  door,  and  as  they  shook  hands  he  said, 
"Till  Sunday." 


—333- 


CHAPTER   TWENTY-EIGHT 

/TpHE  next  morning  Evelyn  was  full  of  disgust  for  the 
J.  evening  before.  Not  one  serious,  interesting  word 
had  been  said.  Ann  had  chirped  and  gurgled;  Tommy 
had  flashed  his  heavy,  good-natured,  second-hand  wit; 
Bruce,  under  an  indifferent  exterior,  had  been  busy  mak- 
ing an  impression  on  her,  and  she  had  flirted  discreetly 
with  him. 

She  who  had  so  recently  passed  through  such  a  tragic 
experience  had  spent  the  evening  with  no  memory  of  the 
past  or  thought  of  the  future. 

This  was  not  altogether  true.  As  she  lay  in  the  soft 
bed  in  the  pretty  bright  room  waiting  for  Martin  to  bring 
in  the  breakfast  tray,  Evelyn  was  forced  to  recognise  the 
almost  subconscious  thought  of  the  future  that  had  been 
with  her  on  the  night  before.  Now  it  came  again,  taking 
shape  as  a  bright  and  possible  way  of  escape  from  the 
uncertainties  of  her  present  existence. 

Then  Martin  appeared  with  the  tray,  and  by  the  side 
of  the  tea  cup  was  a  letter.  It  was  in  Mary's  familiar 
hand,  and  was  postmarked  Sidney,  Australia.  Mary  had 
cabled  her  immediately  after  Brandon's  death,  but  this 
was  the  first  letter  that  had  come.  She  was  full  of  con- 
cern for  Evelyn. 

"I  shall  be  here  probably  a  year  longer,"  she  wrote, 
"and  if  things  go  wrong  with  you,  or  you  feel  that  you 
need  a  change  of  scene  and  thought,  come  out  to  me. 
We  are  going  to  do  several  interesting  plays  after  the 
run  of  'Olga,'  and  we  can  make  room  for  you.  My  con- 
tract with  the  Brandon  firm  has  six  months  to  run,  and 
after  that  Mr.  Williams  is  going  to  present  me  in  several 
of  the  more  recent  Broadway  successes. 
—334— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"I  want  to  hear  from  you,  Evelyn.  At  times  I  am 
anxious  about  you,  about  your  health,  but  I  am  sure  that 
you  are  going  to  be  a  sensible  girl,  and  will  go  on  soberly 
and  seriously  with  your  work.  Keep  up  your  courage 
and  your  ideals,  and  take  care  of  your  precious  self — I 
wish  I  were  there  to  look  after  you." 

The  effect  of  this  letter  on  Evelyn  was  to  drive  her 
immediately  to  her  desk.  There  she  wrote  letters  to  four 
well-known  managers  saying  that  she  was  without  plans 
for  the  present,  and  should  be  glad  to  have  them  bear  her 
in  mind  if  there  were  parts  in  their  new  productions 
suited  to  her. 

After  she  had  written  the  letters  she  dressed  and  went 
for  a  walk  up  Fifth  Avenue.  It  was  a  brisk  December 
day  and  the  sidewalks  were  crowded  with  Christmas 
shoppers.  Evelyn  wound  her  way  in  and  out  of  the 
throng,  pausing  to  look  at  the  alluring  shop  windows. 
She  espied  a  hat  that  she  yearned  for,  but  resisted  temp- 
tation, and  walked  on,  only  to  yield  a  few  doors  above  to 
the  seductions  of  a  white  silk  negligee — a  filmy,  lacy  thing 
reduced  from  twenty-five  to  fifteen  dollars. 

"I  always  feel  more  cheerful  when  I  am  buying  some- 
thing pretty."  So  she  justified  this  expenditure  to  her 
conscience.  "And  I  need  to  be  cheered  up.  I  can't  live 
in  gloom — I've  got  to  go  on.  If  I  economise,  and  think 
depressing  thoughts,  I'll  never  get  anywhere." 

Reasoning  thus,  Evelyn  passed  the  Waldorf,  and, 
obeying  a  sudden  impulse,  turned  and  passed  in  through 
the  revolving  doors.  She  paused  for  a  moment  at  the 
entrance  of  the  restaurant.  The  orchestra  was  playing 
an  air  from  "Madame  Butterfly."  There  were  groups 
of  well-dressed  men  and  smartly  attired  women  sitting 
about  tables  bright  with  shining  silver  and  glassware. 
Waiters  hurried  with  trays,  bus  boys  moved  about,  a  page 
passed  through  calling  out  names  in  a  monotonous  voice. 

There  assailed  Evelyn's  nostrils  a  warm  fragrance 

335 


The  Least  Resistance 

made  up  of  the  perfume  of  luxurious  women,  the  aroma 
of  savoury  dishes,  and  the  bouquet  of  fine  tobacco.  De- 
pression forsook  her  entirely — she  felt  at  home,  elated, 
confident. 

The  head  waiter  saw  her  standing  slim  and  elegant  in 
her  rich  furs  and  held  up  a  courteous  hand  to  direct  her 
to  a  table  just  vacated.  She  was  seated  by  a  window 
that  commanded  a  view  of  the  sunny  Avenue.  The  long 
line  of  automobiles,  the  heavy,  green  motor  busses  with  a 
few  occupants  braving  the  winter  wind  on  the  upper 
deck;  the  stream  of  pedestrians  flowing  downtown,  con- 
testing the  sidewalks  with  the  stream  flowing  uptown. 
On  the  corner  stood  a  boy  with  a  tray  of  violets  and 
gardenias — he  stamped  his  feet  to  keep  them  warm  as 
he  called  out  his  wares. 

She  turned,  conscious  that  a  waiter  was  hovering  over 
her.  She  glanced  at  the  menu — everything  seemed  un- 
usually expensive. 

"Let  me  see — a  pot  of  tea,  toast,  and  a  fruit  salad — a 
dry  Martini  first."  She  glanced  up  just  in  time  to  see 
Bratton  Wayne  leave  a  table  in  a  far  corner. 

"Go  speak  to  that  gentleman,  and  say  Miss  Lane 
would  like  to  see  him.  His  name  is  Mr.  Wayne." 

The  waiter  hurried  away,  and  Evelyn  turned  again  to 
the  window.  A  few  moments  later  Bratton  Wayne  was 
standing  by  her  table. 

"How  do  you  do,"  she  said,  extending  her  hand.  "I 
couldn't  resist  sending  for  you  when  I  caught  sight  of 
your  back." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  he  said,  as  they  shook  hands. 
"How  are  you  this  bright  December  day?"  There  was 
none  of  the  old  cordiality  in  his  voice,  and  only  a  formal 
smile  on  his  face. 

"I  was  out  for  a  walk,  and  the  crowds  tired  me  so  I 
dropped  in  here  for  lunch." 
—336— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Contending  with  the  Christmas  crowds  does  wear  one 
out,"  he  said  politely. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  with  me — I'm  going  to  be  here 
only  a  little  while." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  sat  down. 

"I'm  having  a  cocktail — will  you  join  me?" 

"No,  thanks." 

"Then  coffee  for  Mr.  Wayne,"  she  said  to  the  waiter. 

"No,  really,  I  couldn't — I  have  lunched." 

"Nonsense;  I  never  saw  you  when  you  couldn't  drink 
one  more  cup." 

He  made  no  further  objection,  and  the  waiter  dis- 
appeared. For  a  moment  after  they  were  alone  they 
looked  in  each  other's  eyes.  She  was  hoping  that  into 
the  courteous,  impersonal  gaze  something  of  the  old, 
friendly  light  would  come. 

"I  feel  that  I  have  bullied  you  dreadfully  in  keeping 
you  here,  but  it  is  real  charity  of  you  to  stay — I'm  dread- 
fully lonely  to-day,"  she  said. 

"That  scarcely  seems  possible." 

Evelyn  made  a  little  mouth  which  he  pretended  not  to 
see. 

"I  read  your  new  book  a  few  weeks  ago.  Janet  seems 
to  me  the  realest  woman  you've  done." 

"So  your  friend,  Mary  Leighton,  thinks,  too.  I  had  a 
letter  from  her  this  morning." 

Evelyn  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  She  did  not  know 
that  a  friendship  existed  between  the  two — Mary  had 
never  mentioned  it. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  her  this  morning,  too.  She  wants 
me  to  come  out  to  her  in  Australia " 

"Yes?"  he  asked,  with  the  first  gleam  of  real  interest. 

"But  I  can't  go.    I  have  no  heart  for  long  trips  alone." 

The  waiter  appeared  at  that  moment  with  the  cock- 
tail, and  as  Evelyn  sipped  it  the  talk  between  them  be- 
came desultory  enough. 

—337— 


The  Least  Resistance 

On  the  whole  it  was  an  unsatisfactory  luncheon.  It 
scarcely  seemed  possible  to  Evelyn  that  this  was  the  old 
Bratton  with  whom  she  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours 
during  the  winter  that  followed  the  closing  of  the  Hart- 
well  Company,  and  who  had  been  such  a  delightful  com- 
panion the  week  in  Switzerland.  Never  before  had  he 
failed  to  be  interested  in  her  least  word,  or  concerned 
for  her  welfare.  This  formally  polite  man,  who  left  all 
conversational  initiative  to  her,  and  rarely  followed  her 
in  that  beyond  a  few  necessary  comments,  was  a  stranger, 
and  a  baffling,  annoying  stranger  at  that. 

And  mixed  with  her  chagrin  was  a  great  deal  of  curi- 
osity. What  were  his  real  feelings  beneath  the  courte- 
ously impersonal  exterior?  Had  she  ceased  to  interest 
him,  or  was  he  hiding  from  her  a  deep  hurt  ?  She  fenced 
skilfully  to  find  a  weakness  in  his  defence,  but  as  they 
left  the  table  a  sense  of  her  own  defeat  was  heavy  in 
her  heart. 

"Are  you  walking,  or  shall  I  see  you  to  a  taxi?"  he 
asked. 

"A  taxi,  please,"  she  answered. 

He  helped  her  in,  and  repeated  the  address  to  the 
chauffeur.  Then  he  stood  by  looking  in  through  the  open 
window  at  her. 

"I  am  going  to  wish  you  a  happy  Christmas,  now," 
he  said.  "I  am  leaving  to-morrow  for  San  Francisco. 
Gordon's  playing  there  and  I  am  going  to  spend  the  holi- 
days with  him." 

"You  are  a  wonderful  brother,"  she  said,  smiling 
bravely  at  him. 

"He's  all  I  have.  Good-bye,  Evelyn  Hope."  There 
was  a  ghost  of  the  old  warmth  in  his  voice. 

"Good-bye,"  she  answered,  as  she  laid  her  hand  for  a 
fleeting  moment  on  his.  "Good-bye — I'm  sorry,  Brat- 
ton." 

He  raised  his  hat,  turned  abruptly,  and  walked  away. 
-338- 


The  Least  Resistance 

Evelyn  leaned  back  in  the  cab  with  closed  eyes.  She 
wanted  to  shut  out  the  world — the  gay,  brilliant  world. 
The  wind  whistled  shrilly  through  the  open  windows  of 
the  taxi,  she  shivered  in  her  furs.  The  last  vestige  of 
courage  and  hope  departed,  and  mortification  and  despair 
laid  waste  to  her  spirit. 

She  paid  the  chauffeur,  felt  her  way  up  the  stairs,  and 
rang  the  bell.  Then  she  remembered  that  Martin  was 
away  for  the  afternoon.  She  fumbled  in  her  purse  for 
the  key,  and  opened  the  door. 

The  living  room  was  cold  and  uninviting.  A  number 
of  new  bills  were  lying  on  the  desk.  Evelyn  laid  aside 
her  furs  and  looked  wildly  about. 

A  new  sensation  had  come  to  torture  her  sick  nerves. 
Brandon — he  was  everywhere.  He  might  walk  in  the 
door  as  he  had  so  many  times;  he  might  emerge  from 
the  bedroom,  or  peer  at  her  over  the  top  of  the  arm- 
chair that  had  been  his  favourite  seat.  Often  she  had 
come  in  and  found  him  there  waiting  for  her — she  felt 
that  he  was  waiting  now ! 

Holding  her  hand  over  her  mouth  and  quivering  with 
terror,  Evelyn  backed  into  the  dining  room,  not  daring 
to  take  her  eyes  from  the  living  room  where  the  unseen 
presence  lurked. 

On  a  small  table  stood  the  bottle  of  Scotch  and  the 
siphon  which  had  served  her  light-hearted  guests  yester- 
day. She  snatched  up  a  glass,  poured  it  half  full,  sprayed 
in  the  charged  water,  and  drank  it  down. 

"I  won't  suffer  any  more — I  won't — I  won't!"  she 
cried  hysterically. 

Martin,  returning  late  in  the  afternoon,  found  her 
mistress  lying  on  the  couch  in  the  living  room.  Her  hair 
was  down,  and  she  was  wrapped  in  an  old  bath  robe. 

Surprised  at  her  unusually  deep  sleep,  Martin  bent 
over  her,  touching  her  hands  gently.  They  were  cold 

—339— 


The  Least  Resistance 

and  lifeless.  The  face  showed  a  ghastly  pallor  in  the 
winter  twilight.  "Miss  Lane — Miss  Evelyn,"  she  said 
gently.  There  was  no  answer,  and  she  gave  the  limp 
figure  a  shake.  The  eyelids  quivered,  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  returning  consciousness. 

Martin  hurried  to  the  kitchen,  lighted  a  fire,  and 
put  on  water  to  heat.  Back  to  the  living  room  she 
rushed,  struck  a  match  to  the  gas  logs,  and  ripped  off 
Evelyn's  shoes  and  stockings. 

For  an  hour  she  worked  with  hot  water  and  mustard 
and  heart  massage,  and  then  the  fluttering  lids  opened, 
and  a  sigh  escaped  from  the  pale  lips. 

"Feel  better  now?"  Martin  asked  gently. 

Evelyn  nodded;  it  was  difficult  to  speak.  Her  head 
throbbed  dully,  her  heart  pumped  laboriously,  and  a 
profound  inertia  was  over  her  whole  body.  Shortly  these 
symptoms  would  give  way  to  twitching  nerves,  and  a  spell 
of  hysterics,  but  there  were  three  of  those  wonderful 
powders  that  she  had  gotten  in  Paris,  and  one  always 
quieted  her. 

"I'll  make  you  some  beef  tea — it  will  be  good  for  you, 
and  then  I'll  put  you  to  bed,"  Martin  said. 

Again  Evelyn  nodded,  and  Martin  left  the  room.  Pass- 
ing through  the  dining  room  she  took  the  bottle  of  whis- 
key and  hid  it  on  the  highest  shelf  of  the  china  closet. 

Left  alone,  Evelyn  lay  back  on  her  pillows  watching 
the  brightly  burning  gas  logs.  Then  she  glanced  up  at 
the  little  clock  which  ticked  cheerfully  on  the  mantel. 
It  was  seven  o'clock. 

There  was  a  long  evening  ahead — but  it  wouldn't  seem 
long  if  she  went  to  sleep.  Just  now  she  thought  she  might 
be  able  to  sleep  without  help  from  the  little  white  pow- 
der. She  felt  very  warm  and  drowsy,  and,  remember- 
ing that  to-morrow  was  Sunday,  almost  cheerful.  She 
began  to  think  about  the  dress  she  would  wear  to  com- 
plete the  subjugation  of  young  Bruce  Winthrop. 
—340— 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE 

BRUCE  WINTHROP  arrived  the  next  afternoon  at 
four.     He  drove  down  in  a  bright  green  car,  and 
ran  up  the  stairs  to  Evelyn's  apartment.     In  answer  to 
his  ring  she  opened  the  door. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said  as  she  extended 
her  hand  to  him. 

"Thanks,  I'm  awfully  glad  you  let  me  come.  I'll 
leave  this  big  old  coat  out  here."  He  slipped  off  the  fur- 
lined  coat,  and  hung  it  up  in  the  tiny  vestibule. 

She  could  see  he  was  a  bit  embarrassed,  and  that 
it  had  taken  some  courage  on  his  part  to  come.  He 
had  seen  her  only  once,  and  then  he  hadn't  been  at  all 
able,  as  he  said  to  himself,  to  "get  a  line  on  her."  Usually 
he  "sized  up"  a  woman  at  once,  and  unless  they  imme- 
diately attracted  him,  he  gave  them  no  further  thought. 
In  this  case  he  didn't  like  to  admit  that  he  was  attracted, 
but  certainly  he  had  thought  about  her  a  great  deal  during 
the  day,  and  waited  quite  impatiently  for  four  o'clock. 

Very  soon,  under  Evelyn's  tactful  lead,  he  was  feeling 
at  ease,  and  hurrying  along  in  his  rapid,  jesting  way. 

And  all  the  while  she  was  studying  him,  instinctively 
seeking  the  most  effective  way  of  pleasing  him.  In  her 
manner  there  was  no  trace  of  coquetry — he  was  too 
young  for  subtleties,  and  in  an  open  flirtation  she  was 
sure  that  he  was  more  adept  than  she.  He  was  bright, 
spoiled,  aggressive,  regarded  as  one  of  the  fast  young 
men  about  town,  but  he  was  still  very  much  of  a  boy, 
and  there  was  a  streak  of  chivalry  in  him  that  one  could 
easily  touch. 

Evelyn  saw  this  in  the  look  which  answered  her  state- 
ment that  she  had  been  ill  yesterday. 

—341— 


The  Least  Resistance 

"Ah,  that's  too  bad.  You  need  to  get  out.  Suppose 
you  come  out  for  a  spin  now — the  air's  great.  Then 
couldn't  we  have  dinner  together?" 

"Why " 

"Please — it's  better  for  you  than  staying  in  the  house." 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "It  would  be  very  nice,  and 
you'll  take  care  of  me,  won't  you — not  keep  me  out  too 
long,  or  let  me  eat  wonderful  things  I  shouldn't?" 

"I'll  be  as  stern  as  my  Dad." 

"I  suppose  I  couldn't  ask  more  ?" 

"Not  in  the  way  of  sternness — the  Spartan  mother  had 
nothing  on  him." 

"Then  I'll  put  myself  in  your  hands,  if  you'll  wait 
until  I  get  myself  all  wrapped  up." 

Evelyn  disappeared,  and  returned  shortly  with  her  fur 
cap  on,  well  veiled,  and  carrying  her  fur  coat.  Bruce 
took  it  from  her,  and  held  it  while  she  slipped  into  its 
luxurious  warmth. 

"Now,"  she  said,  laying  her  muff  and  gloves  and  hand- 
kerchief on  the  table,  "I  must  speak  to  Martin." 

While  she  was  out  of  the  room  Bruce  took  up  the  hand- 
kerchief and  held  it  to  his  face.  It  gave  forth  the  same 
subtle  fragrance  that  permeated  all  of  her  belongings. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  thrust  it  in  his  pocket. 
Evelyn,  on  her  return,  did  not  notice  its  absence. 

They  drove  until  seven,  then  dined,  by  her  request,  at 
the  Lafayette.  She  nibbled  at  a  delicious  wild  duck  and 
drank  sparkling  Burgundy,  and  encouraged  Bruce  to  tell 
her  a  great  deal  about  himself. 

And  Bruce,  nothing  loath,  talked  at  length  on  his 
favourite  theme — his  father,  who  by  turns  was  lavish 
and  tyrannical — giving  without  stint  so  long  as  Bruce  was 
amenable  to  paternal  rule,  tightening  up  the  purse  strings 
at  the  least  sign  of  insubordination. 

And  then  there  was  a  sister  who  had  married  an  Eng- 
lish Earl;  she  was  an  awfully  good  sort;  quite  different 
—342— 


The  Least  Resistance 

from  his  older  sister,  the  widow  of  Stanwood  Carter, 
and  first  aid  to  the  old  man  in  the  control  of  Bruce. 

"I'm  on  the  black  list  just  now,"  he  confided.  "They 
want  me  to  go  into  Dad's  office  and  learn  all  about  real 
estate.  Ugh !" 

"And  what  do  you  want  to  do?"  she  asked. 

"Just  now  I  guess  I  want  to  have  a  good  time;  but 
you'll  laugh — I'd  really  like  to  be  a  doctor — you  know, 
a  fine  surgeon."  He  waited  to  see  if  she  thought  that 
intensely  funny. 

But  she  didn't ;  rather  she  treated  his  confession  with  a 
sweet  seriousness  that  robbed  him  of  all  embarrassment. 
And  this  was  a  new  bond  between  them.  He  dropped  his 
flippancy  and  forgot  that  he  was  a  young  man  of  the 
world,  bent  on  seeing  how  far  the  pretty  little  actress 
would  go. 

As  Evelyn  undressed  that  evening  she  faced  herself  in 
the  mirror  with  a  little  smile  of  triumph  on  her  lips. 

"But  it  isn't  hard  to  find  a  man's  weak  spots — they 
have  so  many,"  she  said  wisely  to  herself. 

The  next  morning  answers  came  from  two  of  the  man- 
agers to  whom  she  had  written.  Both  were  courteous, 
one  even  cordial,  speaking  of  the  pleasure  she  had  given 
him  in  Millicent,  but  both  regretted  that  they  had  nothing 
to  offer  her  just  now.  Each  would  be  pleased  to  bear 
her  in  mind  for  the  future. 

Evelyn  read  these  two  letters  as  she  drank  her  tea 
and  munched  her  toast.  She  laid  them  aside,  thinking 
that  perhaps  it  didn't  matter  after  all. 

The  afternoon  brought  a  letter  from  William  Mar- 
lowe, asking  her  to  come  in  to  see  him  the  first  week  in 
January.  He  would  like  to  talk  to  her  about  a  spring 
production.  This,  at  least,  was  something  to  look  for- 
ward to,  and  on  the  strength  of  it  Evelyn  dressed  and 
went  out  to  do  some  Christmas  shopping. 

—343— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Presents  must  be  sent  to  the  children  in  Kentucky,  and 
to  her  father  and  stepmother,  and  there  was  Martin, 
and  Ann,  and  a  few  others.  Then  she  must  send  many 
Christmas  cards  so  that  people  wouldn't  forget  her  dur- 
ing her  retirement. 

She  spent  a  happy  afternoon  going  from  shop  to  shop, 
inspecting,  pricing,  buying  Christmas  gifts.  She  reached 
home  at  six  o'clock,  tired  out,  and  with  one  hundred  dol- 
lars of  her  small  store  gone. 

It  was  a  great  deal  more  than  she  had  meant  to  spend, 
and  just  as  she  was  beginning  to  feel  anxious  over  her 
expenditures  the  telephone  rang  and  Bruce  Winthrop 
wanted  to  know  if  she  wouldn't  lunch  with  him  to- 
morrow. She  would.  Then  he  would  call  for  her  at  one. 

During  the  evening  Ann  and  Tommy  dropped  in.  They 
drank  highballs  and  talked  of  Ann's  Christmas  party. 
At  first  Evelyn  said  that  she  couldn't  come,  but  they 
overruled  her,  and  soon  she  found  herself  full  of  interest 
in  the  details  of  the  affair.  Ann  promised  she  would 
meet  a  lot  of  interesting  men,  and  some  equally  nice  girls. 

They  departed  at  midnight  and  Evelyn  drank  another 
highball  and  went  to  bed. 

Ann  Dwight's  Christmas  party  was  a  great  success. 
The  large  studio  lent  itself  admirably  to  decorative  ef- 
fects, and  gave  ample  room  for  the  free  movement  of 
the  fourteen  guests. 

Ann,  Evelyn,  Gene  Hartley,  the  young  playwright, 
and  the  statuesque  Claire  Blaney  represented  the  stage. 
There  were  two  painters,  a  broker,  a  banker,  and  class- 
mates of  Tommy's.  The  tall,  blue-eyed,  fair-haired  girl 
wrote  poetry  and  was  beloved  of  the  banker.  The  stun- 
ning woman  with  a  smooth,  young  face  under  a  high  pile 
of  white  hair  was  the  wife  of  Ashton  Marvin,  the  octo- 
gena/ian  steel  magnate. 

,    "She's  as  stupid  as  she  is  beautiful,  and  I  only  asked 
her  because  if  this  gets  in  the  paper  it  looks  well  to  have 
344 — 


The  Least  Resistance 

one  'Mrs'  on  the  guest  list!"  Ann  confided  to  Evelyn, 
as  the  latter  was  removing  her  wraps  in  the  tiny  bedroom. 

By  ten  o'clock  all  of  the  guests  had  arrived  and  were 
gathered  about  the  beautifully  decorated,  brightly  lighted 
Christmas  tree  which  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  studio. 
Tommy,  a  huge,  good-natured  Santa  Claus,  distributed 
the  gifts,  and  made  with  each  an  appropriate,  witty 
speech. 

After  the  fun  of  the  tree  had  subsided,  a  screen  was 
removed  from  another  corner  of  the  room,  disclosing 
three  tables.  On  them  candles  gleamed  above  white  linen, 
bright  silver,  and  shining  glass.  Two  silent,  deft  waiters 
wheeled  the  tables  into  the  centre  of  the  room  and  sup- 
per was  served — the  best  effort  of  a  fashionable  caterer. 
There  was  champagne,  and  speeches,  and  shrieks  of 
laughter,  and  the  Christmas  spirit  of  good  will. 

At  one  o'clock  the  tables  were  whisked  away,  the  rugs 
rolled  up,  the  Victrola  set  in  motion,  and  dancing  began. 

At  first  Evelyn  took  no  part,  but  sat  on  a  divan  be- 
tween Bruce  Winthrop  and  Harvey  Myers,  the  well- 
known  painter  of  women.  They  had  had  a  great  deal  of 
champagne,  and  the  talk  was  gay,  and  a  bit  daring.  The 
other  men  who  were  not  dancing  were  attracted  to  this 
corner,  and  soon  Evelyn  was  holding  a  veritable  court. 

All  the  coquette  in  her  was  aroused.  So  many  men 
to  please,  so  many  to  smile  on — interesting,  diverse  types. 
The  heavy-jawed  broker,  the  young  playwright,  growing 
a  moustache  to  celebrate  the  success  of  his  play,  the 
artist,  Harvey  Myers,  with  inscrutable  grey  eyes  and  an 
international  reputation.  These  men  sat  about  her  while 
the  other  couples  went  through  the  mazes  of  the  modern 
dances. 

Harvey  Myers  interested  her  most.  He  was  more 
complex,  more  mentally  sophisticated  than  any  man  pres- 
ent. He  reminded  her  a  little  of  Hale  Johnston.  Dur- 

—345— 


The  Least  Resistance 

ing  the  supper  he  had  looked  at  her  critically,  and  said 
abruptly,  "I  should  like  to  paint  you." 

And  she  had  answered,  "What  is  it — passion,  ambition, 
temper,  or  doom?" 

He  had  replied  with  a  startled  look,  and  then  a  thought- 
ful, "I  don't  know,  but " 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  when  you  begin  to  paint  me,  and 
here's  to  the  picture."  She  raised  her  glass,  and  he 
joined  her,  while  Bruce  sat  by,  miserably  jealous. 

And  all  through  the  evening  the  inscrutable  grey  eyes 
sought  hers,  and  all  through  the  evening  Bruce  sat  by 
her  side,  puffing  violently  cigarette  after  cigarette.  Once 
when  the  attention  of  the  others  was  diverted  to  some 
new  dancing  steps  his  hand  closed  over  her  wrist.  "I'm 
taking  you  home — remember,"  he  said  fiercely. 

She  looked  at  him  with  shining,  alluring  eyes.  "I  won't 
forget,  Bruce." 

"Come  on,  I  want  you  to  dance,"  he  said,  keeping  his 
hold  on  her  wrist. 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  want  to— I  don't  feel " 

"Of  course  you  do — you  must "  He  drew  her  to 

her  feet  and  slipped  his  arm  about  her  waist. 

The  Victrola  was  playing  a  deeply  insinuating  waltz. 
The  dancers  walked,  hesitated,  dipped  and  swayed  to  it. 
The  spell  of  it  crept  into  Evelyn's  blood,  mingling  with 
the  intoxication  of  wine  and  flattery. 

Never  had  she  been  so  happy,  never  lifted  so  far  be- 
yond the  dreary  commonplaces  of  life.  She  danced 
next  with  Harvey  Myers,  then  with  the  young  play- 
wright, Hartley,  and  the  other  men  followed.  It  seemed 
that  she  had  found  the  thing  she  had  been  seeking  all 
of  her  life,  a  perfect  mode  of  expression.  It  was  mar- 
vellous, the  sense  of  harmony  and  freedom,  and  the  thrill 
that  came  quivering  deliciously  through  physical  ex- 
haustion. 

At  four  o'clock  the  dancing  ceased,  and  at  a  signal 
—346— 


The  Least  Resistance 

from  Ann  all  of  the  lights  went  out,  and  a  waiter  wheeled 
into  the  room  a  table  bearing  a  bowl  of  burning  punch. 
In  the  dark  room  it  looked  like  a  ball  of  fire  advancing. 
Candles  surrounding  the  bowl  were  lighted,  the  fire  ex- 
tinguished, and  then  the  cups  were  filled,  while  from  the 
Victrola  came  the  plaintive  wail  of  a  Christmas  carol. 

A  little  later  there  were  "good-byes"  and  congratula- 
tions and  "best  wishes,"  and  the  weary,  merry  crowd  was 
trooping  to  the  elevator  to  wait  for  the  sleepy  operator 
to  bring  up  his  car.  They  stood  about  the  entrance  of 
the  building  in  the  snowy  darkness,  calling  for  motor 
cars  and  taxis. 

When  Bruce's  car  came  up  he  helped  Evelyn  in  and 
then,  without  waiting  for  an  invitation,  Billy  Harper 
stepped  in,  declaring  that  there  was  no  taxi  for  him, 
and  Bruce  would  just  have  to  take  him  home. 

Bruce's  inclination  was  to  throw  him  out  bodily,  but 
Evelyn  laughed  and  said  of  course  he  must  come  with 
them.  Whereupon  a  deeper  gloom  settled  over  the  heir 
to  the  Winthrop  millions  and  he  refused  to  speak  to 
either  of  his  guests  on  the  downtown  drive. 

Evelyn,  fortified  by  the  last  cup  of  punch,  scarcely 
noticed  the  change  from  the  gaiety  and  warmth  of  Ann's 
studio  to  the  cold  darkness  of  the  streets.  Even  the  fact 
that  Bruce  was  in  a  jealous  sulk  only  accentuated  the 
excitement  of  the  evening.  He  said  good  night  to  her 
without  any  reference  to  the  engagement  he  had  with  her 
for  the  day  after  Christmas. 

But  it  mattered  little  to  Evelyn;  her  spirits  were  too 
high  to  be  brought  to  earth  by  the  bad  temper  of  a  boy- 
ish admirer. 

She  let  herself  in  with  a  latch  key,  switched  on  the 
lights,  and  threw  off  her  coat  on  a  convenient  chair.  The 
room  was  chilly,  and  she  lighted  the  gas  logs.  She  un- 
dressed slowly,  leaving  her  things  where  they  dropped. 
All  the  while  she  was  thinking  of  Harvey  Myers,  and 

—347— 


The  Least  Resistance 

his  inscrutable  eyes,  and  his  immediate  interest  in  her. 
He  had  asked  to  call,  and  she  had  said  that  he  might 
come  next  Friday. 

As  she  slipped  into  her  soft  white  gown  and  began  un- 
doing the  lustrous,  fragrant  hair,  running  her  hand  over 
its  length,  admiring  subconsciously  its  texture,  she 
thought  what  a  wonderful  thing  it  was  to  be  young  and 
beautiful  and  possessed  of  a  charm  that  never  failed. 

Evelyn  slept  until  noon  the  next  day,  and  was  only 
aroused  then  by  a  ring  at  the  telephone.  It  was  Bruce, 
and  he  was  ready  to  cut  the  family  dinner  and  come  for 
her  if  she  would  say  the  word.  But  she  refused,  add' 
ing  that  they  would  have  their  Christmas  the  next  day — • 
he  should  stay  with  his  family  to-day. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"I'm  having  a  little  girl  who  played  a  small  part  in  my 
play  down  here  for  dinner — rescuing  her  from  a  Forty- 
fifth  Street  rooming  house." 

"Say,  that's  bully  of  you!  Could  you  use  my  car 
this  afternoon?" 

"It  would  be  splendid ;  I  could  go  for  her  and  we 
might  have  a  ride  to  get  up  our  appetites.  Could  we 
have  it  at  four?" 

"Sure." 

"And" — she  hesitated  a  moment  over  his  name — 
"Bruce,  the  flowers  are  wonderful.  I  just  caught  a 
glimpse  of  them." 

"There's  a  little  box  inside.  See  you  to-morrow ;  good- 
bye!" 

Evelyn  searched  among  the  flowers  and  found  a  small 
box  which  contained  a  bracelet  of  artistic  design  and 
exquisite  workmanship. 

"Oh,  he  shouldn't!"  she  whispered,  at  the  same  time 
slipping  it  over  her  wrist,  and  holding  it  off  to  admire  the 
effect. 

Then  she  glanced  over  the  other  gifts.  They  were  few 
-348- 


The  Least  Resistance 

in  comparison  with  those  of  last  year,  but  flowers  and 
fruit  and  the  two  telegrams  and  many  cards  showed  that 
she  was  not  forgotten.  Just  then  Martin  brought  in  an- 
other box,  and  opening  it,  Evelyn  discovered  six  perfect 
gardenias,  and  with  them  the  card  of  Harvey  Myers. 

In  spite  of  the  lassitude  which  enveloped  her  as  a  re- 
sult of  last  night's  indulgence,  Evelyn's  spirits  were  high 
and  she  was  ready  to  join  in  the  pleasure  she  hoped  to 
give  Margery  Farrell. 

Brace's  car  arrived  at  four,  and  she  drove  up  to  Forty- 
fifth  Street.  Waiting  before  the  brownstone  house,  it 
scarcely  seemed  possible  that  only  a  few  years  ago  she 
and  Bob  had  lived  in  this  very  house  and  struggled  with 
poverty  and  obscurity.  Seated  in  the  bright  green  car, 
wrapped  in  the  softest  fur,  waited  on  by  the  urbane  Syl- 
vester, the  past  seemed  like  a  half-remembered  dream. 

Presently  Margery  Farrell  was  running  down  the  steps 
and  after  kissing  Evelyn  on  the  cheek  settled  down  under 
the  big  fur  robe. 

They  gossiped  pleasantly  during  the  ride,  and  returned 
to  the  apartment  for  dinner. 

Waiting  for  her  was  a  Christmas  basket  with  the  card 
of  Mr.  Lawrence  Strain.  It  contained  a  beautiful  box 
of  candy,  rare  fruits,  and  covering  the  bottom  of  the 
basket  half  a  dozen  bottles  of  champagne. 

"Oh,  what  a  gorgeous,  delicious  present!"  Margery 
cried,  as  they  sounded  the  depths  of  the  basket. 

"We  shall  have  a  bottle  of  the  champagne  for  din- 
ner," Evelyn  said.  "I  was  going  to  wear  a  white  ribbon 
to-day,  but  could  any  one  resist  a  bottle  of  this?" 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  have  such  friends,"  Margery 
said. 

"Well,  Mr.  Strain  isn't  a  friend — he  is — he — oh,  he 
can't  be  classified,"  Evelyn  answered  with  a  little  laugh 
and  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

The  champagne  helped  the  dinner  a  great  deal,  and 

—349— 


The  Least  Resistance 

after  it  was  over  they  returned  to  the  living  room.  Evelyn 
stretched  herself  on  a  divan,  and  Margery  drew  up  a 
chair  and  talked  gaily  in  her  bright,  chirping  voice. 

She  was  radiant  with  pride  that  she  had  been  selected 
as  her  "Star's"  sole  Christmas  guest.  She  envied  the 
gay,  luxurious  life  Miss  Lane  led,  and  hoped  that  some 
day  she  too  would  be  so  firmly  established  in  the  theat- 
rical world. 

Evelyn  smiled  sadly,  cynically,  in  answer  to  this  last 
outburst,  and  her  reply  was,  "If  I  had  a  nice  home  in  In- 
diana I'd  take  the  next  train  there.  But  of  course  you 
won't — you  are  going  to  work  hard  and  be  a  good  girl, 
and  a  great  actress,  aren't  you,  Margery?" 

"I  hope  so,"  Margery  answered  fervently. 

"So  do  I.  Have  a  cigarette?"  Evelyn  asked  as  she 
passed  the  box. 

"No,  thanks,  I  don't  smoke.  I  suppose  I'm  awfully 
provincial." 

"Not  at  all — it's  lots  better  for  your  voice  not  to  touch 
them,  but  I've  grown  used  to  them,"  she  said,  as  she 
lighted  a  cigarette  and  drew  in  a  deep  puff  of  smoke, 
sending  it  out  in  a  long  white  stream  through  her  nos- 
trils. 

At  that  moment  Martin  appeared  with  the  coffee  and 
the  liquer  bottle.  Evelyn  sipped  her  coffee  and  after- 
wards drained  two  tiny  glasses  of  cognac. 

She  had  grown  suddenly  restless,  eager  for  excite- 
ment, and  Margery's  gentle  patter  was  tiring  enough, 
though  she  was  making  a  heroic  effort  to  make  the  girl's 
evening  a  pleasant  one.  But  her  mind  would  wander 
to  thoughts  of  last  night.  The  gay  party  in  Ann's  studio 
— the  variety  of  entertainment,  the  food,  lights,  wine,  and 
the  men  who  had  said  flattering  things.  The  inscrutable 
eyes  of  Harvey  Myers,  the  sullen  jealousy  of  Bruce, 
and  the  keen  interest  of  the  young  playwright,  Gene 
Hartley.  He  had  asked  to  take  her  to  see  his  new  play. 
—350- 


The  Least  Resistance 

Would  he  remember?    Had  she  made  a  deep  impression 
on  him? 

Oh,  to  be  lying  here  listening  to  the  chatter  of  this 
child,  while  the  gay,  mad  world  was  throbbing  without 
Music,  lights,  wine — dancing  the  Christmas  night  away. 
She  was  forgotten ;  no  one  thought  of  her ;  no  man  cared 
for  her — oh,  what  a  failure  her  life  was ! 

She  was  tempted  to  call  Bruce  on  the  telephone,  to  ask 
him  to  come  and  take  her  away  from  this  boredom. 
Even  the  rapacious  splendour  of  Lawrence  Strain  would 
be  better  than  this  dulness.  He  would  come  gladly,  and 
look  at  her  with  covetous  admiration,  and  if  she  en- 
couraged him,  he  would  lead  her  to  a  high  mountain, 
and  show  her  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth.  She  sipped 
her  third  tiny  glass  of  cognac,  wondering  how  she  would 
meet  the  temptation. 

Then  suddenly  Evelyn  became  aware  that  there  was  a 
lull  in  Margery's  talk,  and  she  was  half  conscious  that  a 
question  had  been  asked.  In  an  effort  to  atone  for  her 
rudeness,  she  rose  from  the  divan,  and  led  the  way  into 
her  bedroom,  and  there  tried  on  Margery  one  of  her 
Paris  hats. 

"I've  been  thinking  all  evening  that  this  would  become 
you  wonderfully,  and  it  does.  I  want  you  to  have  it — 
wear  it  to-morrow,  and  see  if  some  one  doesn't  like  you 
in  it." 

Margery  was  profuse  in  thanks,  and  a  short  time  later 
said  "good  night,"  kissing  Evelyn  on  the  cheek,  and 
vowing  that  she  had  had  the  most  wonderful  Christmas 
of  her  life. 

After  her  departure,  Evelyn  returned  to  the  divan. 
The  restlessness  was  passing,  and  she  felt  relaxed  and 
drowsy.  The  fourth  glass  of  cognac  seemed  necessary 
to  perpetuate  this  new,  delicious  quiet. 

Presently  she  undressed  and  crept  into  bed,  saying  that 
the  night  would  pass  quickly  if  she  were  asleep. 

—351— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Later  Martin  came  into  the  living  room  to  remove  the 
coffee  tray.  She  shook  her  head  as  she  looked  at  the 
cognac  bottle,  and,  tiptoeing  to  the  bedroom,  asked  if 
Miss  Lane  was  all  right — if  she  needed  anything. 

"No,"  Evelyn  answered  from  the  darkness,  "I'm  going 
to  sleep.  The  drive,  and  your  good  dinner,  and  the 
cognac  have  made  me  sleepy.  I  never  take  cognac  when 
I'm  dining  out ;  it  always  makes  me  drowsy.  Good  night, 
Martin." 

Martin  covered  her  up,  lowered  the  window  from  the 
top,  and  left  the  room.  With  a  deep  sigh  of  satisfac- 
tion Evelyn  heard  the  door  close,  and  a  few  moments 
later  she  was  asleep. 

But  it  seemed  to  her  that  only  a  few  moments  later 
she  awoke  with  a  start.  Her  head  was  throbbing,  her 
heart  beating  with  a  fluttering  rhythm,  and  every  nerve 
stretched  to  the  breaking  point.  Her  first  impulse  was 
to  shriek,  but  she  conquered  this,  and  reaching  out 
switched  on  the  lights  to  look  at  the  clock. 

It  was  two  o'clock — two  o'clock,  and  she  would  prob- 
ably be  awake  until  dawn.  How  she  dreaded  these  long, 
wakeful  hours  of  the  night,  fraught  as  they  were  with 
pitiless  introspection. 

The  past  welled  up,  stray  incidents  came — a  dinner 
with  Hale  in  Pensacola,  some  word  of  Hubbard's,  and 
scenes  with  Brandon.  With  no  effort  on  her  part  they 
came  and  she  seemed  powerless  to  check  them  or  choose. 
Some  tyrannical  operator  flashed  on  the  screen  of  her 
mind  pictures  from  the  storehouse  of  memory  without 
consulting  her  wishes. 

And  mixed  with  these  thoughts  of  the  past  were  fears 
for  the  future.  The  rapidly  dwindling  bank  account,  the 
nervous  shrinking  from  the  theatre,  and  the  recurring, 
alarming  heart  attacks,  made  the  path  before  her  any- 
thing but  flower  strewn. 
—352— 


The  Least  Resistance 

She  knew  that  it  required  the  simplest  living  and 
greatest  care  to  keep  herself  in  any  sort  of  condi- 
tion. Excitement,  tension,  stimulants,  lack  of  fresh  air 
soon  told  on  her  delicate  constitution.  Since  Brandon's 
death  her  nerves  had  been  in  a  wretched  state,  and  for 
some  time  there  had  been  a  dull  pain  through  the  shoul- 
ders and  at  times  across  the  chest,  that  filled  her  with 
anxious  foreboding. 

During  the  day  time  she  refused  to  recognise  it,  but 
through  the  wakeful  hours  of  the  night,  when  lowered 
vitality  offered  little  resistance  to  the  rampant  ego,  she 
brooded  over  her  symptoms  and  quivered  with  fear  at 
their  possible  meaning. 

But  the  chief  terror  of  the  night  was  the  fear  of  the 
return  of  poverty.  She  knew  it  so  well,  knew  every 
aspect  of  it  from  the  old  days.  Then  she  had  suffered 
without  knowing  what  affluence  meant — but  now! 

Suppose  no  work  came?  In  a  few  months  she  would 
be  penniless.  Her  jewels  and  furniture  would  have  to 
go,  but  oh,  the  shame  of  pawning  things.  She  conjured 
up  absurd  pictures  of  the  process  of  pawning.  Should 
she  drive  up  in  a  taxi  and  walk  boldly  into  the  shop  so 
that  passers-by  might  think  her  a  rich  woman  looking 
for  bargains  in  a  pawn  shop,  or  should  she  go  heavily 
veiled  ?  What  would  the  pawnbroker  think  ?  Would  he 
know  that  she  was  Evelyn  Lane,  so  recently  a  Broadway 
Star? 

"Oh,  oh,"  she  cried,  turning  over  and  burying  her  face 
in  the  pillow.  "This  is  so  foolish,  it  must  stop." 

She  switched  off  the  lights  and  made  a  determined 
effort  to  sleep.  The  chimes  in  a  neighbouring  church 
announced  the  passing  of  the  hour.  Three  o'clock,  then 
four,  and,  unable  any  longer  to  endure  the  throbbing 
nerves  and  torturing  thoughts,  Evelyn  reached  in  the 
drawer  of  a  bedside  table  for  a  sleeping  powder. 

—353— 


The  Least  Resistance 

The  week  that  followed  made  up  for  the  dullness  of 
Christmas  day.  There  were  luncheons,  drives,  and  din- 
ners with  Bruce,  then  with  Tommy  and  Ann.  Harvey 
Myers  called,  and  Gene  Hartley  did  not  forget  her.  The 
finale  of  the  week  was  the  New  Year's  party  given  by 
him. 

There  was  a  box  party,  and  then  supper  for  eight  at 
the  Claridge.  The  Old  Year  went  out,  hurried  into  ob- 
livion with  horns  and  whistles  and  bells.  The  group 
about  the  table  raised  their  glasses  and  drank  to  the  New 
Year. 

Evelyn,  flushed  with  excitement  and  champagne,  looked 
bravely  down  the  vista  of  the  coming  months  and  resolved 
that  success  should  once  more  perch  on  her  banner.  She 
was  not  going  to  lose  the  position  she  had  gained. 

Later  in  the  evening,  they  drank  a  toast  to  her,  and 
then  Gene  Hartley  drove  her  home.  She  made  an  effort 
to  talk  lucidly  and  steadily  to  him,  for  he  was  speaking 
of  his  new  play,  and  saying  that  he  would  like  her  to 
create  a  part  in  it.  He  wasn't  sure  that  she  would  like 
it  for  it  was  really  a  man's  play  with  a  "clothes  horse 
heroine,"  but  her  personality  might  redeem  it. 

After  this  he  came  often  to  see  her,  and  spent  lavishly 
the  money  that  rolled  in  weekly  from  his  Broadway  suc- 
cess. He  had  the  dance  craze,  and  he  and  Evelyn  made 
the  rounds  of  the  dancing  places.  They  learned  all  of 
the  new  steps  and  got  to  dance  so  well  together  that  he 
laughingly  suggested  they  take  a  "flier  into  vaudeville." 

Bruce  Winthrop  came,  too,  growing  more  serious  and 
devoted  with  each  visit.  All  the  attitudes  and  manner- 
isms of  the  gay  young  man  about  town  dropped  away 
from  him  and  a  chivalrous  tenderness  showed  itself  in 
his  regard  for  her. 

He  was  anxious  about  her  health,  interested  in  her 
plans,  and  extremely  jealous  of  every  other  man  who 
came  about.  He  didn't  approve  of  Harvey  Myers,  and 
—354— 


The  Least  Resistance 

he  didn't  like  Gene  Hartley,  and  he  couldn't  understand 
why  Evelyn  wasted  her  time  on  them.  Myers  kept  her 
sitting  in  a  cold  studio  while  he  painted  her  picture,  and 
Gene  Hartley  didn't  know  how  to  drive  a  car;  he  was 
uneasy  when  he  thought  of  her  trusting  herself  to  his 
care.  Bruce  felt  convinced  that  he  was  the  one  man 
in  the  world  who  understood  and  appreciated  her  and  had 
for  her  a  disinterested  affection. 

Evelyn  played  on  this  with  all  of  the  artistry  at  her 
command.  Apparently  she  wiped  out  other  men  and 
other  interests  and  gave  herself  up  to  his  companionship. 

"I  want  to  do  everything  for  you,"  he  said  in  his 
solemn,  boyish  way.  "I  wake  up  in  the  night  sometimes 
and  wonder  if  you  are  all  right." 

"Oh,  I'm  always  all  right — Martin  is  such  a  capable 
person ;  she  looks  after  me  as  though  I  were  two  years 
old." 

"She  should  do  that.  It's  not  right  for  a  girl  like  you 
to  be  alone  in  the  world.  Gee,  when  I  think  of  all  the 
ugly,  stupid,  sloppy  girls  I  know  who  have  'mamma'  and 
'papa'  and  a  couple  of  aunts  to  look  after  them,  and 
here's  little  you " 

"Well,  bless  your  heart,"  she  said  with  a  soft  little 
laugh,  "you  are  a  nice  boy  to  think  about  me  in  that 
way." 

"Gee !  when  I  think  of  all  you've  done  in  the  world  by 
yourself  I'm  proud  of  you." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  do  it  myself;  I  had  some  very  good 
friends,"  she  said  seriously. 

"Well,  you  made  the  friends,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes ;  well,  go  ahead,  Bruce,  since  you  are  determined 
to  give  me  a  laurel  wreath.  I'm  not  going  to  say  an- 
other word.  But  if  you'll  let  me  I'll  pick  off  a  few  of 
the  leaves,  and  give  them  to  you." 

"Ah  ;  I  haven't  got  anything  coming  to  me.  Last  night 
I  had  an  awful  row  with  my  Dad,  and  he  told  me  that  I 

—355— 


The  Least  Resistance 

was  about  the  most  worthless  thing  that  ever  encumbered 
the  earth." 

"Oh,  Bruce " 

"Maybe  he's  right,  but  a  fellow  doesn't  like  to  hear 
it,  especially  when  you've  got  to  go  in  for  real  estate  to 
be  a  worthy  citizen." 

"But  why  not?  You  do  want  to  be  something  more 
than  an  idler,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"One  line  is  as  interesting  as  another  if  you  go  in 
with  the  right  spirit." 

"Look  here;  are  you  campaigning  with  my  enemies?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I'm  wishing  you'd  be  more  tactful 
with  your  father,  and  I  would  like  to  see  you  beginning 
some  kind  of  serious  living." 

"Well,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "I'm  not  anxious  to 
dance  around  all  my  life."  Then  came  a  sudden  in- 
spiration. "Would  you  like  me  to  go  in  with  the  old 
man  ?" 

Evelyn  nodded.  "I  should  like  it  better  than  anything 
I  know." 

"I'll  do  it,  then — I'll  tell  him  to-night,  and  to-morrow 
I'll  be  on  the  job  and  whenever  you  want  to  buy  a  mil- 
lion dollars'  worth  of  real  estate  just  give  me  a  call." 

And  while  she  was  setting  Bruce  on  the  right  path 
Evelyn  was  going  twice  a  week  to  the  studio  of  Harvey 
Myers  to  sit  for  her  portrait. 

Myers  worked  in  a  high-ceilinged  room  with  a  great 
northern  window.  There  was  a  large  open  fireplace 
which  he  never  used,  as  the  glow  interfered  with  the 
quality  of  light  he  wanted  on  her.  A  few  of  his  earlier 
paintings  hung  about,  and  several  rare  bronzes  stood  on 
the  mantel  and  a  table  in  a  far  corner.  A  grand  piano, 
couch,  and  a  few  beautifully  carved  chairs  completed  the 
furnishings  of  the  studio. 

At  first  its  austerity  chilled  Evelyn,  used  to  colour, 
-356- 


The  Least  Resistance 

softness,  and  plenty  of  heat,  but  she  soon  fell  into  an 
appreciation  of  her  surroundings  and  looked  forward  to 
her  sittings. 

He  was  doing  her  seated  in  a  high-backed  chair, 
dressed  in  the  grey  velvet,  which  lent  itself  admirably  to 
paint  effects.  The  picture  was  done  in  the  bold,  free 
manner  of  the  artist,  and  he  caught  with  marvellous 
exactness  the  psychological  interest  of  Evelyn's  face — the 
"something"  in  her  eyes  that  Bratton  Wayne  had  tried 
to  define.  He  caught  the  sweetness,  the  sadness,  the 
questioning  that  Life  had  never  answered,  and  he  re- 
corded the  weakness  that  was  her  charm  and  her  tragedy. 

The  soft  grey  dress,  the  white  hands,  the  pale  face,  with 
the  appealing  eyes,  as  the  centre  of  interest,  and  the  dark, 
vaguely  patterned  background  gave  the  effect  of  fragile 
beauty  overcast  by  a  gloom  that  it  could  not  understand, 
and  against  which  it  was  powerless. 

When  Myers  had  finished  for  the  day,  Evelyn  made 
tea  and  they  sat  and  talked,  or  he  played  for  her  on  the 
grand  piano.  He  interested  her  greatly.  He  had  none 
of  the  enthusiastic  egotism  of  the  young  playwright,  none 
of  the  solemn  boyishness  of  Bruce.  He  was  supple- 
minded,  quick  in  his  readings  of  character,  accurate  in 
his  judgments,  detached  and  wholly  unconventional  in 
his  attitude  towards  life  and  art.  His  interest  in  Evelyn 
seemed  entirely  artistic,  and,  though  it  piqued  her  van- 
ity, she  was  glad  that  it  was  so. 

One  afternoon  during  the  sitting  a  woman  arrived — 
a  handsome,  robust  young  woman  of  perhaps  twenty- 
eight,  with  perfect  skin  and  clear  eyes.  Myers  called 
her  "Miriam,"  and  seemed  glad  to  see  her.  He  intro- 
duced her  to  Evelyn  as  Miss  Trainor,  and  from  the  talk 
which  ensued  it  was  evident  that  the  relation  between 
them  was  close.  She  addressed  him  with  an  air  of  pro- 
prietorship, and  when  he  replied  there  was  a  new  tone  in 

—357— 


The  Least  Resistance 

his  voice.  Harvey  Myers  painted  the  spirit,  but  he  loved 
the  flesh. 

"Which  is  just  as  well  for  me,"  Evelyn  said  as  she 
left  the  studio  and  hurried  home  to  keep  an  engagement 
with  Bruce  Winthrop. 

January  passed  and  February  rushed  by.  Soon  after 
the  opening  of  the  year  Evelyn  had  interviewed  William 
Marlowe,  who  had  written  her  of  a  part  in  a  spring  pro- 
duction. But  he  informed  her  that  in  view  of  the  uncer- 
tain state  of  things  theatrical,  he  had  postponed  the  play 
to  the  next  fall.  If  she  were  not  engaged  he  would 
like  to  talk  to  her  some  time  during  the  summer. 

Evelyn  returned  from  this  interview  re-living  the  sen- 
sations that  had  followed  the  death  of  Brandon,  and  for 
days  afterwards  she  struggled  against  depression  and 
hysteria.  Then,  to  shake  it  off,  she  plunged  into  the 
gaiety  and  excitement  that  her  new  circle  of  friends 
offered. 

For  some  time  vague  plans  of  getting  work  came  to 
her,  but  with  the  passage  of  time  they  vanished,  and  she 
gave  her  thoughts  to  the  "way  out"  that  lay  nearest  to 
hand. 

On  the  first  day  of  March,  she  remembered  after- 
wards looking  at  the  calendar  while  it  was  happening, 
Bruce  Winthrop  asked  her  to  marry  him. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 

AND  Evelyn  accepted  him.  They  were  very  happy, 
though  neither  was  blind  to  the  obstacles  that  lay 
in  the  path  of  their  happiness.  Bruce  was  entirely  de- 
pendent on  the  generosity  of  a  tyrannical,  devoted  fa- 
ther. And  his  father  was  not  apt  to  sanction  his  mar- 
riage to  a  girl  out  of  his  own  sphere — especially  a  girl 
of  the  stage. 

For  two  years  there  had  been  friction  between  the 
father  and  son  on  account  of  the  latter's  lack  of  interest 
in  the  source  of  the  family  fortune.  The  elder  Winthrop 
had  inherited  his  wealth  from  his  father,  and  he  had 
worked,  planned  and  schemed  until  he  had  doubled  his 
inheritance.  And  he  expected  the  same  of  Bruce,  but 
Bruce  had  resisted  all  pressure  until  he  found  himself  in 
love  with  Evelyn,  and  anxious  to  make  something  of 
himself  for  her  sake. 

Not  understanding,  but  taking  it  as  a  sign  that  the 
boy  was  at  last  coming  to  his  senses,  Winthrop  senior 
showed  himself  ready  to  meet  his  son  more  than  half 
way.  And  as  the  days  went  on  and  Bruce  showed  that 
he  not  only  had  surrendered,  but  had  done  so  in  a  spirit 
of  sincerity  and  whole-hearted  interest,  the  older  man 
dropped  his  sharp,  fault-finding  ways,  and  a  new  har- 
mony was  established. 

Bruce  reported  to  Evelyn  the  progress  of  events  and 
was  full  of  confidence  that  in  a  short  time  he  would  be 
able  to  tell  his  father  of  his  engagement  with  some  hope 
of  a  favourable  hearing. 

Evelyn  was  not  so  certain,  but  she  encouraged  him, 
finding  that  his  frank  boyishness  aroused  the  latent  ma- 
ternal instinct  to  a  surprising  degree. 

—359- 


The  Least  Resistance 

She  called  him  "my  boy"  as  she  stroked  his  hair  and 
discussed  with  him  plans  for  their  future. 

They  were  to  go  to  Italy  on  their  honeymoon — Evelyn 
had  never  been  to  Italy,  and  she  longed  for  it,  "for  the 
lazy,  beautiful  life  one  could  lead  there." 

"We  must  go  where  it  is  romantic,  Bruce,  where  the 
water  is  a  deep  blue,  and  the  sunshine  a  wonderful  gold, 
and  the  moon — perhaps  the  Italian  moon  will  be  more 
beautiful  than  the  Swiss."  And  with  her  head  resting 
on  Bruce's  shoulder,  and  feeling  the  pressure  of  his  arm 
about  her  waist,  she  sighed  a  little  regretfully  over  the 
memory  that  the  mention  of  the  Swiss  moon  stirred. 
Life  made  so  many  promises  and  fulfilled  so  few. 

No  one  was  told  of  the  engagement  but  Tommy  and 
Ann,  and  though  they  were  cordial  in  their  congratula- 
tions, Evelyn  felt  that  neither  of  them  regarded  it  as  a 
practical  arrangement. 

"Of  course,"  Ann  said  when  they  were  alone,  "Tommy 
and  I  are  engaged,  too,  but  we  can't  marry  until  his  old 
man  dies.  And  if  Tommy  should  get  tired  of  waiting, 
why  his  family  will  pay  me  well  for  the  damage  he  has 
done  my  young  affections."  And  Ann  smiled  wisely. 

"Oh,  but  Ann " 

"Why  not?  I'm  awfully  fond  of  Tommy,  but  I  know 
men,  and  I  don't  purpose  to  be  left  with  a  lot  of  wrinkles, 
and  an  empty  purse,  after  all  of  the  fellows  I've  turned 
down  for  him." 

"But  would  his  family  pay  ?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"I  rather  think  they  would.  Tommy  is  a  great  letter 
writer,  and  I  have  kept  them  all,"  Ann  said  with  an 
emphatic  nod.  "Of  course,  I  won't  ever  have  to  use 
them,  but  I  believe  in  a  girl  protecting  herself." 

"Why,  so  do  I,"  Evelyn  agreed,  "but " 

"You'd  never  do  it,"  Ann  cut  in.  "People  have  been 
'doing  you'  all  of  your  life,  and  they'll  keep  on."  Then, 
fearing  she  had  overstepped  the  bounds  of  friendship, 
—360— 


The  Least  Resistance 

she  added,  "I'm  glad  you  are  going  to  have  Bruce  to 
look  after  you ;  he's  a  nice  boy." 

The  pearls  of  Ann's  worldly  wisdom  produced  a  de- 
cidedly depressing  effect  on  Evelyn,  and  she  found  her- 
self thereafter  avoiding  Tommy  and  Ann,  who  were  con- 
stant reminders  of  the  obstacles  that  stood  in  the  way 
of  her  marriage  to  Bruce. 

This  suited  Bruce  admirably,  since  he  wanted  her  all 
to  himself,  and  gradually  she  withdrew  almost  entirely 
from  the  gay  crowd  who  had  helped  her  kill  the  winter. 

Bruce  left  the  office  at  three  and  came  as  fast  as  the 
green  car  would  bring  him  to  the  apartment.  If  the 
weather  permitted  they  motored  into  the  country,  dined 
at  some  wayside  inn,  or  returned  for  dinner  and  the 
theatre. 

Their  happiness  had  almost  the  idyllic  quality  of  first 
love — it  was  Bruce's  first  serious  love,  and  Evelyn  was 
pre-eminently  adaptable. 

At  times  restless  spells  came,  and  it  was  difficult  to 
live  up  to  the  ideal  Evelyn  that  Bruce  had  created.  Some- 
times he  bored  her,  and  often  she  was  reminded  that  he 
was  just  twenty-four,  and  she  was  close  to  thirty;  that 
he  was  a  boy,  and  she  a  woman  who  had  lived  and 
suffered  and  "died  many  times."  But  for  the  most  part 
she  was  so  low  in  vitality  that  the  desire  for  excitement 
and  variety  and  mental  stimulation  had  no  ground  to  root 
in.  It  was  good  to  drift  lazily  through  the  days  towards 
the  haven  that  Bruce  offered. 

Then  the  inevitable  happened,  and  the  peace  of  the 
days  was  shattered.  Some  zealous  friend  warned  Bruce's 
sister,  who  in  turn  warned  her  father,  and  a  general  ex- 
plosion followed. 

The  Winthrop  lawyer  gathered  a  detailed  account  of 
Evelyn's  past.  Club  gossip  and  the  surmises  of  her  co- 
workers  were  laid  before  Bruce  as  facts.  He  hurried 

-361- 


The  Least  Resistance 

to  her,  she  denied  everything,  he  believed  her,  and  re- 
turned to  his  father,  aflame  with  indignation. 

Unable  to  reason  with  the  boy,  his  father  took  sterner 
measures  to  bring  him  to  his  senses.  His  allowance  was 
stopped,  the  office  closed  against  him,  and  all  credit  cut 
off. 

Bruce  appealed,  sulked,  raged,  and  ran  to  Evelyn  for 
comfort.  And  in  spite  of  her  own  pain  and  mortifica- 
tion she  did  her  best  for  him.  He  urged  her  to  marry 
him  anyway.  He  could  earn  a  living.  She  shook  her 
head. 

"Father  will  forgive  us  once  the  thing  is  done." 

"Oh,  no,  he  wouldn't — he'd  never  forgive  you  and 
he'd  pursue  me  with  his  hatred.  I  couldn't,  Bruce.  I 
just  couldn't."  She  had  glimpsed  his  father  and  sister 
once  at  the  Opera,  and  she  knew  there  was  nothing  to 
be  expected  from  them  in  the  way  of  softness. 

"Well,  suppose  we  are  poor — other  people  are  poor, 
and  stand  it." 

"You've  never  been  poor — you  don't  know  how  awful 
it  is.  You  think  it's  romantic;  it  isn't;  it's  hideous — 
there  aren't  words  to  tell  how  hideous  it  is." 

"Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked  desperately. 
"I  can't  give  you  up — I  won't,  I  won't,"  he  repeated 
doggedly. 

Just  about  this  time  Evelyn's  lease  expired,  and  added 
to  the  trouble  that  Bruce  was  giving  her  was  the  prob- 
lem of  a  place  to  live. 

She  dared  not  renew  the  lease  of  the  expensive  apart- 
ment in  view  of  the  uncertain  state  of  her  finances. 

Harvey  Myers  had  once  told  her  of  some  studios 
around  Washington  Square,  and  one  day  she  went  down 
to  investigate  them.  She  found  one,  a  large,  high- 
ceilinged  room  on  the  top  floor  of  a  well-kept  old  house. 
A  small  bedroom  and  bath  opened  off  the  studio  proper, 
and  though  the  plumbing  was  not  modern,  and  one  had 
—362— 


The  Least  Resistance 

to  depend  on  a  grate  fire  in  the  winter  time,  Evelyn 
decided  that  it  would  do,  especially  as  the  price  was  just 
one-third  of  what  she  was  paying  for  her  apartment. 

She  went  home  and  wrote  Bruce  a  note,  asking  him 
to  give  her  three  days  to  think  it  over.  She  didn't  want 
him  to  come,  or  even  telephone  during  that  time,  and  she 
hoped  at  the  end  of  the  three  days  to  give  him  a  definite 
answer. 

She  sent  down  enough  furniture  to  make  the  place 
habitable,  called  in  an  auctioneer,  and  disposed  of  the 
rest.  With  the  money  thus  acquired  she  paid  Martin 
her  overdue  wages  and  told  her  that  she  would  not  be 
able  to  keep  her  any  longer. 

A  new  hardness  in  her  mistress  prevented  any  emotion 
on  Martin's  part,  though  it  was  with  great  reluctance 
that  she  left  Miss  Lane  to  look  after  herself. 

"My  daughter  and  I  are  going  to  open  a  rooming  house 
on  Forty-sixth  Street,  and  I'm  leaving  my  address  so 
that  you  can  send  for  me  if  you  ever  need  me.  If  you 
are  ever  sick  or  anything  let  me  know,  Miss  Lane." 

Evelyn  shook  hands  with  her  and  gave  her  a  little  gold 
pin  for  the  youngest  grandchild,  and  wished  her  "the 
best  of  luck." 

It  spite  of  their  long  association,  Evelyn  saw  her  go 
without  regret.  She  wanted  to  be  alone,  away  from 
everything  that  reminded  her  of  the  past.  Never  had 
the  instinct  of  flight  been  so  strong  within  her. 

On  the  third  day  of  Bruce's  exile  Evelyn  was  estab- 
lished in  the  downtown  studio.  The  janitress  had 
scrubbed  the  floors,  washed  the  paint  and  windows,  and 
laid  rugs.  She  called  up  her  sixteen-year-old  son,  and, 
under  Evelyn's  direction,  they  arranged  furniture  and 
hung  pictures,  and  by  nightfall  the  studio  had  assumed 
a  pleasing,  home-like  appearance.  The  tiny  bedroom  was 
sweet  and  clean  with  its  pretty  draperies  and  cheerful 

—363— 


The  Least  Resistance 

pictures.     Even  the  old-fashioned  bathroom  had  been 
made  fit  for  human  use. 

Evelyn  was  tired  from  the  day's  exertions,  but  after 
the  departure  of  the  janitress  and  her  son  she  sat  down 
at  the  desk  and  wrote  to  Bruce,  releasing  him,  and  ad- 
vising him  to  make  friends  with  his  father. 

"Neither  of  us  knows  how  to  be  poor,  Bruce.  I  am 
afraid  of  it,  and  you  would  hate  it — oh,  how  you  would 
hate  it.  I've  given  up  the  apartment;  you  won't  be  able 
to  find  me,  so  please  don't  try.  Be  sensible,  and  work 
out  of  it.  Oh,  Bruce,  I  always  bring  bad  luck  with  me — 
I  don't  know  why." 

She  finished  the  letter,  went  out  and  dropped  it  in  a 
mail  box.  Then  she  wandered  on  until  a  bench  in 
Washington  Square  invited  her.  She  sat  down  and 
breathed  in  the  fresh  spring  air — there  was  a  caress  in 
it  and  a  promise. 

Somehow  hope  was  born  in  her.  She  had  broken  with 
the  old  life,  the  life  that  represented  Brandon  and  arti- 
ficial success.  Was  she  strong  enough  to  rise  again — this 
time  legitimately? 

She  would  try,  try  hard,  and  if  God  would  only  help 
— a  little  prayer  forced  its  way  from  her  heart  to  the 
God  who  lurked  behind  the  stars  in  the  night  sky.  She 
leaned  back,  looking  at  the  stars,  thinking,  planning, 
aspiring. 

For  the  next  few  days  Evelyn  read  the  papers  eagerly, 
and  on  the  fifth  day  she  ran  across  an  interview  with 
Bruce  Winthrop,  who  was  sailing  for  a  visit  to  his  sister, 
Lady  Janet  Clagston.  Mr.  Winthrop  had  tried  to  avoid 
the  reporters,  but  they  had  cornered  him  and  asked  him 
numerous  questions.  They  found  him  irritable  and  un- 
communicative, and  he  refused  absolutely  to  comment  on 
the  rumour  that  his  engagement  to  a  well-known  actress 
had  just  been  broken. 
—364— 


The  Least  Resistance 

In  a  short  time  the  quiet  of  the  studio  and  the  mo- 
notony of  her  daily  life  palled  on  Evelyn,  and  she  sent 
a  note  to  Gene  Hartley  acquainting  him  with  her  new 
address  and  asking  him  to  come  help  her  kill  the  demon, 
boredom. 

He  came  immediately  and  was  full  of  admiration  for 
her  new  home.  It  might  not  be  so  comfortable  as  the 
old  place,  but  it  had  a  lot  more  character  and  atmos- 
phere. 

They  had  a  pleasant  chat  over  a  cup  of  tea,  went  to 
the  Brevoort  for  dinner  and  afterwards  drove  up  Fifth 
Avenue  and  through  the  Park  in  an  open  taxicab.  On 
the  way  home  he  suggested  that  they  stop  somewhere  and 
have  a  dance.  Evelyn  thought  it  would  be  great  fun, 
and  it  was  long  after  midnight  before  either  of  them 
thought  of  the  taxi  which  was  waiting  below. 

The  next  evening  she  went  with  him  to  the  opening 
of  a  summer  musical  show,  and  afterwards  they  had 
supper  with  Tommy  and  Ann. 

No  word  was  said  of  Bruce,  though  Evelyn  could  see 
that  Ann  was  bursting  with  the  desire  to  talk  about  him. 
She  arrived  at  the  studio  the  next  afternoon,  and  told 
a  harrowing  story  of  Bruce's  despair  upon  the  receipt 
of  Evelyn's  letter. 

"I  thought  he  would  lose  his  mind.  He  came  to  Tom- 
my and  me,  and  we  all  tried  to  find  you.  We  tried  to 
bribe  the  postman  to  tell  us  your  change  of  address,  and 
we  called  up  everybody  we  could  think  of." 

"I  just  dropped  out — it  was  the  only  way.  His  family 
— oh,  well,  you  know." 

"I  know,  my  dear,  but  why  did  you  let  it  come  to  an 
issue?  Why  didn't  you  pretend  it  was  all  off?"  Ann 
asked. 

"Bruce  is  headstrong.  I  couldn't  do  anything  with 
him.  He  never  thought  of  anything,  but — marriage," 
Evelyn  said,  looking  at  Ann  with  honest  eyes. 

-365- 


The  Least  Resistance 

"The  poor  lamb — what  a  lot  he's  got  to  learn,"  Ann 
said.  "Well,  he'll  be  back  as  soon  as  it  blows  over." 

"I  don't  want  him  back — I  wouldn't  go  through  with 
it  again  for  anything,"  Evelyn  said  with  a  shiver.  "Let's 
not  talk  about  it — let's  have  a  highball,  and  forget  it." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  oughtn't  to  touch  a  thing — but  just 
a  wee  bit  of  Scotch.  I  love  it,  but  I  think  it  makes  me 
stout — I  gained  a  pound  last  week." 

"What  a  tragedy!"  Evelyn  exclaimed. 

"Nothing  could  be  worse.  I'm  going  to  'phone  Tommy 
to  come  for  us  at  six.  Shall  he  bring  along  Gene  Hart- 
ley?" 

"Yes,"  Evelyn  answered  as  she  mixed  the  highballs. 

Thus  the  life  which  her  engagement  had  interrupted 
was  resumed.  The  afternoons  were  crowded  with  en- 
gagements, and  in  the  evening  there  were  dinners,  thea- 
tre parties,  roof  gardens,  and  always  dancing.  They 
made  motor  trips  to  nearby  resorts,  and  there  was  more 
dancing,  flirtations,  drinking,  and  late  hours.  Energy, 
vitality,  time  burned  up  to  achieve  a  "good  time !" 

During  the  spring  and  early  summer,  Evelyn  paid 
several  visits  to  a  pawn  shop,  and  from  each  visit  she 
returned  in  the  grip  of  a  levelling  spell  of  depression. 

She  tried  to  cut  down  expenses,  but  she  had  to  dress, 
and  she  was  far  too  nervous  to  make  her  own  gowns 
and  hats  as  she  had  in  the  old  days.  The  studio  was 
inexpensive,  and  she  ate  little  enough  at  home,  but  the 
janitress  had  to  be  paid  for  every  slight  service,  and 
there  were  taxicab  hire,  her  share  of  "treats"  when  she 
and  Ann  were  alone,  and  numerous  extravagant  habits 
that  she  had  acquired,  and  could  not  shake  off. 

But  these  thoughts  came  only  after  a  visit  to  the 
pawnbrokers.  In  the  whirling  gaiety  of  the  summer 
there  was  little  time  for  fear  and  introspection.  Some- 
thing would  happen ;  something  had  always  happened. 

And  as  if  to  corroborate  this  statement,  one  morning 
-366- 


The  Least  Resistance 

a  letter  arrived  from  William  Marlowe,  asking  her  to 
come  in  to  see  him  before  noon  on  Thursday. 

Evelyn  came  from  his  office  with  a  contract  which 
called  for  her  appearance  in  a  play  that  he  was  to  pro- 
duce in  September.  She  was  to  create  the  leading  femi- 
nine role,  opposite  a  male  star,  and  to  receive  for  her 
services  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week.  She  re- 
turned to  the  studio  radiantly  happy,  and  filled  with  good 
resolutions. 

There  would  be  no  more  mad  pursuit  of  pleasure,  no 
more  late  hours ;  and  the  stimulants  which  flared  up  her 
vitality  at  the  expense  of  her  weak  heart  should  be 
stopped  immediately.  She  would  get  herself  in  good 
physical  condition  for  the  ordeal  of  rehearsals. 

Marlowe  had  looked  at  her  critically  and  in  his  glance 
she  had  read  that  he  had  thought  her  prettier  than  she 
now  appeared.  She  had  been  prettier — for  during  the 
last  few  months  she  had  left  nothing  undone  that  would 
rob  her  of  health  and  beauty.  Why,  oh,  why  had  she 
been  such  a  fool? 

But  that  was  a  thing  of  the  past;  now  all  would  be 
changed — careful  living  and  right  thinking  and  hard 
work  when  the  rehearsals  started. 

She  sent  word  to  her  friends  that  she  was  going  away 
for  a  little  rest  in  order  to  be  ready  for  the  new  play — 
she  would  notify  them  of  her  return. 

For  a  week  Evelyn  stuck  bravely  to  her  plan,  but  in- 
stead of  the  improvement  that  she  had  expected  so  con- 
fidently, at  the  end  of  seven  days  she  felt  really  ill.  Sleep 
would  not  come  until  the  wee  small  hours,  then  she 
dropped  into  a  restless,  dream-haunted  doze  that  deep- 
ened into  a  heavy  stupor  through  the  morning  hours. 
She  awoke  around  noon,  feeling  inert,  stupid,  and  often 
in  pain. 

The  making  of  the  tea  and  toast  which  constituted 
her  breakfast  seemed  a  herculean  task,  and  since  she 

—367— 


The  Least  Resistance 

had  no  real  desire  for  food,  it  was  sometimes  neglected 
until  late  in  the  afternoon. 

She  tried  walking,  but  heat  and  fatigue  soon  drove 
her  in  to  lie  through  the  long  afternoon  on  her  divan, 
trying  to  read  improving  books. 

But  the  evenings  were  hardest  to  get  through — the 
long,  lonely  evenings  after  a  lonely  dinner  in  some  ob- 
scure restaurant  where  she  was  not  likely  to  meet  any 
one  she  knew.  Several  nights  she  sat  for  hours  on  a 
bench  in  Washington  Square  forgetting  herself  in  watch- 
ing the  endless  procession  of  people  that  traversed  the 
square. 

On  her  way  home,  Evelyn  bought  the  evening  paper, 
and  read,  lying  on  the  divan  with  a  shaded  lamp  on  a 
table  throwing  its  glow  over  her. 

The  bright  spot  made  by  the  light  accentuated  the 
gloom  of  the  large  room.  The  deep  shadows  in  the 
corners  were  filled  with  vague  terrors.  She  half  ex- 
pected shapes  to  body  themselves  forth  from  the  dark- 
ness. There  was  a  curious  sensation,  if  she  could  lie 
perfectly  still,  hold  her  breath,  and  peer  intently  enough 
— something  would  appear. 

Sometimes  in  her  great  curiosity  fear  would  depart, 
and  she  made  little  experiments  with  the  shadows.  Then 
terror  would  sweep  over  her,  and,  springing  from  the 
divan,  she  would  turn  on  all  of  the  lights. 

On  such  an  occasion  near  the  end  of  the  second  week, 
when  she  stood  in  the  room  quivering  with  fear,  the  tele- 
phone rang  sharply.  It  cut  across  her  tense  nerves  and 
she  screamed,  then  stood  for  a  moment  unable  to  move 
towards  the  telephone. 

The  friendly,  cheerful  voice  of  Harvey  Myers  greeted 
her.  He  was  visiting  a  friend  across  the  way,  and  had 
just  seen  her  lights  go  up.  They  were  going  up  to  the 
Astor  Roof — would  she  come  with  them? 

"Yes,  I  should  like  to.  Give  me  ten  minutes  to  dress." 
-368- 


The  Least  Resistance 

Oh,  the  relief!  Evelyn  dressed  hastily,  selecting  her 
prettiest  summer  gown  and  her  most  becoming  hat. 

She  ran  into  the  studio  to  look  into  the  long  mirror 
and  stood  for  a  moment  fascinated  by  her  own  image. 
Her  face  was  pale — paler  than  it  had  ever  been — a  mar- 
ble white,  and  her  large,  appealing  eyes  burned  with  a 
new,  wild  intensity — she  was  tragically  beautiful. 

"Once  in  a  life  time,  one  looks  so,"  she  whispered,  and 
then  she  hoped  that  the  marvellous  beauty  would  last  un- 
til Harvey  Myers  came. 

And  it  did.  He  looked  at  her  with  fresh  interest  and 
genuine  admiration. 

"You  grow  more  wonderful  day  by  day — I  shall  fall 
in  love  with  you  yet,"  he  said,  then,  reluctant  to  take  his 
eyes  from  her,  he  turned  to  introduce  his  friend. 

The  three  journeyed  uptown  and  spent  a  thoroughly 
enjoyable  evening.  To  Evelyn  the  music  was  entrancing, 
the  talk  of  the  men  interesting  and  stimulating,  and  the 
fragrant  claret  cup  the  ideal  drink  for  a  warm  July  night. 

After  this  outing  she  slept  well  and  was  awake  at  nine 
the  next  morning,  feeling  rested  and  cheerful.  Plainly, 
solitude  and  boredom  were  disastrous  to  her — she  needed 
companionship  and  excitement. 

She  called  up  Ann  and  heard  that  she  and  Tommy  were 
motoring  down  to  Long  Beach  for  a  swim  and  dinner. 
If  Evelyn  would  come  along  they  would  get  another  man 
to  make  up  a  party  of  four.  Evelyn  would  be  glad  to 
come — she  was  tired  of  the  rest  cure. 

A  few  days  later  the  last  of  the  good  resolutions  went 
out  of  commission.  She  stopped  at  a  shop  on  her  way 
home  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  Scotch  Whiskey,  Holland 
Gin,  French  Vermouth,  and  several  siphons  of  Vichy. 
That  evening  there  was  to  be  an  informal  gathering  in 
her  studio,  and  they  all  liked  the  cheering  cup. 

One  night  during  the  latter  part  of  August,  Evelyn 
returned  from  a  long  motor  trip  with  Ann,  Tommy,  and 

—369— 


The  Least  Resistance 

young  Clarence  Hart  to  find  in  her  mail  box  a  letter 
from  the  Marlowe  office. 

It  was  a  notification  that  rehearsals  of  the  new  play 
would  begin  next  Monday  morning  at  eleven  o'clock  at 
the  Gaiety  Theatre,  and  under  separate  cover  they  were 
sending  her  part. 

The  blue-backed  part  came  the  next  morning.  Evelyn 
tried  to  feel  elated,  assuring  herself  that  she  was  most 
fortunate,  that  if  she  made  good  in  this  part  it  would 
mean  better  things  with  the  Marlowe  firm. 

But  oh,  the  dreary  stupidity  of  the  part,  the  stiff,  un- 
lifelike  quality,  and  the  words,  and  words  she  had  to 
learn.  Evelyn's  association  with  Brandon  had  taught  her 
a  great  deal  about  plays,  and  in  this  part  she  saw  that 
there  was  nothing  for  her  but  talk  and  expensive  clothes. 

In  the  afternoon  paper  she  read  an  announcement  of 
the  cast,  and  the  interesting  fact  that  Edward  Paver  had 
been  engaged  to  produce  the  play.  She  smiled  as  she 
thought  of  poor,  pale,  incompetent  Paver — how  he  had 
run  to  and  fro  at  the  bidding  of  Tilton  and  Miss  Hart- 
well — always  patient,  meek,  and  perspiring.  To-day  he 
was  a  successful  director,  in  demand  in  spite  of  the 
ragged  performances  that  were  the  result  of  his  efforts. 

After  the  first  spell  of  depression  had  passed,  Evelyn 
began  to  feel  a  great  interest  in  the  experience  before 
her.  For  so  many  months  she  had  been  away  from  the 
theatre  and  all  thoughts  of  acting  that  when  she  entered 
the  theatre  on  Monday  morning  a  sensation  of  strange- 
ness enveloped  her.  It  was  difficult  to  realise  that  she 
had  come  back  to  familiar  ground. 

But  soon  the  strangeness  wore  off.  The  handshake 
of  Paver,  who  remembered  her  well,  dispelled  it,  and 
she  dropped  naturally  into  the  old  routine. 

They  rehearsed  three  weeks  and  went  out  of  town  for 
the  opening.  The  strain  of  rehearsals,  the  worry  of 
getting  suitable  clothes,  and  difficulty  of  finding  a  good 
—370— 


The  Least  Resistance 

maid  to  take  along,  had  told  on  Evelyn's  strength, 
and  after  the  first  performance  she  was  in  a  state  verging 
on  collapse. 

The  next  day  she  was  unable  to  leave  her  bed,  but 
managed  to  pull  herself  together  in  time  for  the  evening 
performance. 

She  worked  through  the  week,  sick  in  body,  and  filled 
with  a  wild,  protesting  dread  of  the  opening  in  New 
York.  She  would  be  a  failure;  the  critics  would  score 
her,  Marlowe  would  be  displeased,  and  she  never  again 
would  be  able  to  get  an  engagement. 

Saturday  night  Evelyn  telegraphed  to  Martin  to  meet 
her  at  the  train  Sunday  morning.  The  new  maid  had 
irritated  her  with  her  incompetence  and  garrulity. 

And  what  a  relief  it  was  to  see  the  broad-bodied,  ca- 
pable Martin  waiting  at  the  gate  when  the  train  pulled 
into  the  station.  Martin  helped  her  to  a  cab  and  they 
drove  to  the  studio. 

Evelyn  pillowed  her  head  on  Martin's  shoulder,  and 
clung  to  her  hand  like  a  sick,  frightened  child.  All  over 
town  the  signboards  announced  the  opening  of  Mr.  Ed- 
mund Campbell  in  "The  One  Chance,"  supported  by  Miss 
Evelyn  Lane.  But  Evelyn  scarcely  noticed  the  sign- 
boards as  the  taxi  raced  towards  home. 

"I'll  take  care  of  you,  Miss  Evelyn,"  Martin  mur- 
mured. "You'll  be  all  right — just  be  quiet." 

"They  won't  let  me  be  quiet,"  Evelyn  answered.  "I've 
got  to  act  to-morrow  night,  and  I'm  not  well — not 
well " 

"I  know,  I  know,  but  you'll  feel  better,"  Martin  as- 
sured her. 

Martin  carried  her  up  the  stairs,  so  light  a  burden  she 
scarcely  felt  it.  She  laid  Evelyn  gently  on  the  divan 
while  she  made  the  bed. 

All  that  day  Martin  hovered  over  her  with  gentle 
words,  nourishing  broth,  and  soothing  massage.  She 


The  Least  Resistance 

wanted  to  send  for  a  doctor,  but  Evelyn  refused  to  have 
one. 

"They  would  tell  me  to  rest,  and  I  can't.  If  I  should 
ever  need  one  send  for  Dr.  Holt." 

That  night  Martin  slept  on  the  couch  in  the  studio, 
waking  at  the  least  sound  from  the  bedroom.  Evelyn 
slept  fairly  well,  and  the  next  morning  she  was  more 
cheerful  in  mind  and  stronger  in  vitality.  She  rested 
through  the  day  and  at  seven  o'clock  was  dressed  and 
waiting  for  the  taxicab. 

Once  in  the  dressing  room  she  felt  more  like  herself 
than  she  had  for  weeks.  There  were  letters,  telegrams 
and  flowers  to  cheer  her  up. 

Members  of  the  "Millicent"  Company  had  remem- 
bered her.  Old  and  new  friends,  Tommy  and  Ann, 
Gene  Hartley,  Harvey  Myers,  and  in  one  corner  of  the 
room  stood  a  box  of  magnificent  American  Beauty  roses 
with  the  card  of  Lawrence  Strain  attached.  So  he  had 
not  forgotten  her.  There  were  orchids  from  Hale  John- 
ston, who  always  remembered  her  on  opening  nights — 
what  a  long,  long  time  ago  they  had  been  friends. 

While  she  looked  over  the  flowers  "half  hour"  was 
called,  and  Martin  reminded  her  that  it  was  time  to 
dress.  She  seated  herself  before  the  make-up  table  and 
began  the  old,  familiar  routine  of  cold  cream,  grease 
paint,  rouge,  eye  shadows,  powder,  and  the  whitening  of 
the  neck  and  arms.  Evelyn  went  through  it  mechanic- 
ally, then  stood  up  for  Martin  to  slip  the  first  act  dress 
over  her  head. 

"Martin,"  she  said,  "I  must  have  something  to  steady 

me.  I  feel  so  faint — so "  Her  breath  came  in  little 

gasps. 

Martin  called  a  stage  hand  and  sent  him  out  for  a 
bottle  of  brandy.  When  it  came  she  poured  out  a  drink 
for  Evelyn.  The  next  moment  the  first  act  was  called. 
—372— 


The  Least  Resistance 

Evelyn  sat  in  the  wings  waiting  for  her  cue.  Martin 
was  at  her  side,  holding  her  hand. 

The  cue  came,  and  Evelyn  walked  on,  smiling  bravely. 
She  was  greeted  by  a  burst  of  applause  from  the  friendly 
first-night  audience. 

She  went  through  the  scenes  with  spirit  and  abandon. 
Over  and  over  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "I've  got  to  get 
through — it's  my  last  chance — I've  got  to  get  through." 

The  second  act  tried  her  sorely,  and  Martin  was  forced 
to  repeat  the  dose  of  brandy  to  fortify  her  for  the  last 
act,  which  was  long  and  taxing.  While  Evelyn  was  on 
the  stage,  Martin  dispatched  a  boy  to  the  front  of  the 
house  to  telephone  for  Dr.  Holt,  asking  him  to  come 
to  the  theatre  at  once.  She  was  afraid  that  a  sinking 
spell  might  follow  this  exertion  on  Evelyn's  part. 

To  Evelyn  the  act  seemed  interminable.  She  was 
growing  weaker,  her  heart  pumping  with  a  slow,  heavy 
rhythm.  The  footlights  blinded  her ;  the  audience  seemed 
lost  in  a  great  black  pit — occasionally  from  this  pit  issued 
the  faint  sound  of  clapping  hands. 

She  touched  the  furniture  to  help  her  across  the  stage. 
She  struggled  with  all  of  her  ebbing  strength  to  keep  on 
talking.  She  turned  beseeching,  desperate  eyes  to  the 
actors,  who  made  every  effort  to  help  her  through  the 
scenes. 

The  act  worked  to  its  close,  and  as  the  curtain  fell  to 
the  sound  of  hearty  applause,  Evelyn  fainted  in  her 
stage  lover's  arms. 

Martin  rushed  on  the  stage,  bore  her  to  the  dressing 
room,  and  laid  her  on  a  couch  which  she  had  had  brought 
in.  Shortly  after  Dr.  Holt  arrived. 

"We  must  get  her  to  the  hospital  at  once,"  he  said  after 
a  short  examination. 

"To-night?" 

"Yes,  no  time  to  be  lost — there's  not  much  chance." 

Evelyn  died  three  hours  later  in  Dr.  Holt's  Private 

—373— 


The  Least  Resistance 

___^^_  ___^_ 

Hospital.  It  was  the  deepest,  stillest  time  of  the  night — 
the  hour  that  had  always  been  full  of  terror  for  her. 
But  there  was  no  terror  now — a  flutter  of  the  eyelids,  a 
convulsive  sigh,  and  the  struggle  was  over. 

Martin  knelt  by  the  bedside,  her  stolid  frame  shaken 
with  grief.  A  white-robed  nurse  moved  softly  about  the 
room.  Dr.  Holt  bent  over  the  still  figure  and  pushed  the 
soft  hair  back  from  the  serene  white  brow.  He  shook 
his  head  sadly. 

"Oh,  the  girl — the  girls  on  the  stage !"  he  said  aloud. 


—374— 


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